


Me and My Friends We Might Not Look Like Much

by essieincinci



Series: No Finer Mess To Be Found [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Anxiety, Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Feeding Kink, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Tiny Steve, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essieincinci/pseuds/essieincinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve reads a magazine article, goes to college, meets a bunch of people that he either hooks up with, starts a business with, or becomes best friends with, tattoos people, meets the man of his dreams, falls in love, goes on a road trip, and gets engaged. </p><p>It takes a while.</p><p>Or, Steve's side of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something to note that I don't feel warrants a warning in the tags, but I do want those who need it to be made aware: Steve's mom dies. It's not dwelled upon, but it is an important moment for him, so it does come up in the story. 
> 
> This is meant to weave in and out of the previous three parts of the story, and while it probably makes sense if you haven't read those, there's a lot of contextual implied knowledge that makes the story flow a little better if you have read them.
> 
> I cannot thank [alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody](http://alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com/) and [vanessadoes](http://vanessadoes.tumblr.com/) enough for hand-holding and cheerleading through this process.
> 
> Title from Lucero’s Sounds of the City

 

Steve’s mom pulls him out of Sister Anne-Marie’s third period class to go see another breathing specialist. He’d prefer not to go; Ma needs to be at work and he needs to be in history right now, having missed most of last week with bronchitis. Again. But she insisted, and going without putting up a fuss really is the least he could do. Well, the least he could do is not get sick in the first place, but that isn’t ever likely to happen.

He kicks his bookbag under the chair, homework done. Ma’s talking to the receptionist, something about the forms not having enough room to list his recent hospitalizations, and if she’d just check the records, blah blah blah.

There’s a television bolted to the wall in the corner showing daytime soaps, and underneath it is the ubiquitous magazine rack all doctors’ offices have: _Highlights, Field and Stream, Cosmo,_ and _Glamour_.

Not even a _Vogue_ or a _W_. Steve likes those for the photography, if nothing else, though it is hard to find _W_ in a doctor’s office. At least, a doctor’s office that accepts his insurance. Maybe if he ever wants his nose done. Or Lasik.

He sighs, then coughs, then sighs again. Because expressing teenage disdain is apparently too taxing on his lungs.

He shuffles over to the rack and picks up _Glamour_. He make eye contact with some old man staring daggers at his rainbow flag pins and breathing about as well as Steve is. The old guy looks away first. Steve considers that a win.

He opens the magazine to a random page and starts reading.

It actually turns out to be a pretty neat article about unusual date ideas, a list of twenty-five uncommon things that could be fun to do if anyone ever asks him out. He’s sixteen, gay, four and a half feet tall, and sitting in a doctor’s office for the fifth time this year. It’s March.

So … not terribly likely.

But that’s the thing about these dates. They can be done with friends. They can be done with groups. They can be done with anyone. He’s probably not going to get beat up for leaving notes in random books (item four on The List) with another boy. Not like he could if they went to the movies together or out to dinner or to … parties? Whatever people do on dates.

Ma stands when his name is called to come with him into the exam room. Because he not only looks like he’s twelve, sometimes he needs to be reminded that his mom still thinks he’s twelve.

“Ma, I think I got this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Got me a magazine and a fondness for paper gowns. I think I’m good.”

“I’ll be right out here if you need me, honey.” She sits back down, fingers twisting in the ends of her scarf.

For whatever reason, the doctor makes him wait another eternity inside the exam room, so he memorizes the list. He’s always had a good memory. He decides these are the kinds of dates he’s going to go on. When some boy finds him and likes him and doesn’t mind that he’s a tiny asthmatic runt who is kind of afraid of having sex and gets into fights at the drop of a hat.

****

“Steven, what have we said about fighting?” Father Joe asks him, taping up his knuckles.

Steve sighs. “That if I break my hands I’ll never get into art school.”

“Well, yes. But also that words are our best weapons.”

“Right.” Steve nods. “That too.”

Sister Anne-Marie tsks behind him, but she hadn’t stopped the fight until Steve had hit the ground. Nuns probably weren’t allowed to hate children, but if they were, they probably hated Frankie. Steve hated Frankie, and Steve tried really hard not to hate anyone. But he wasn’t going to let anyone pick on anyone else. Not when he could help it.

****

Steve’s just closed his eyes, leaned in to let Andy’s lips brush against his when he hears a loud cough from his right.

“Steven. Andrew.” Sister Anne Marie grabs them both by the ears and drags them back into the church’s basement rummage sale room. “I believe you’ve been called here to assist the less fortunate find clothing. Unless you’re hiding scarves behind your molars, you’re not being incredibly helpful back here.”

Steve ducks his head and blushes. “Sorry, Sister.”

Andy doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the school year.

****

Steve catches mono again, and he thinks he might break something rolling his eyes at the nurses when they ask who he’s been kissing and then laugh among themselves. Okay, so it's obviously out of the realm of possibility, but some bedside manner would be nice.

He's fallen so far behind at this point that he’ll definitely have to repeat tenth grade, so he essentially drops out. He doesn’t tell his mom. She’s working nights and trying to sleep while he’s supposed to be at school, so he heads to the library and applies for an independent study program, basically a classier-sounding GED.

It’s mostly used by right-wing religious people who are afraid of Satan in the schools or former hippies who are a little too burnt out to actually teach their children real world skills, but the educational material is sound.

It doesn’t take Ma long to figure out he’s not in school anymore, because Steve is a terrible liar. Also because he forgot that Father Joe has known his Ma since they were three. Father Joe was Ma’s first kiss, and that’s just weird.

But both of them agree that it’s probably for the best that Steve stay in the program, since at this rate he can graduate at the end of the year, and if he tries to come back to Saint Peter’s he’s got at least three full years to catch up on. And that’s assuming he miraculously manages to stay healthy.

Ma arranges for Mrs Dubcek, his upstairs neighbor who immigrated from Poland via France sometime around when his grandmother came over from Ireland, to tutor him. He’d think she was a glorified babysitter doing a favor for his mother, except that she’s brilliant, some kind of scientist’s assistant in the old country. Steve gets the feeling that she was more of the scientist than the assistant, but gender politics and the time period probably played against her.

She just pats him on the head and tells him he’s a good boy with too much fight in him, but she doesn’t like to talk about the old days too much. She also teaches him how to bake, though he always tells Ma that he learned it from her, and Mrs Dubcek just gives him the ingredients.

“Baking is better way for channel your anger,” Mrs Dubcek says. “Cookies won’t break your fingers. Your mother told me about when you were young boy. No drawing for months!”

Sometimes now she forgets what country she’s in, what language she needs to speak. Steve picks up French from her like he was born to it, but Polish. Polish days he never quite gets the lesson. Polish days tend to be math days, and math is math regardless. But Polish days usually end in paczki.

Mrs Dubcek only gives food to people she liked. She gives Steve food constantly. Steve is well into his twenties before he realized that he learned a hell of a lot more from Mrs Dubcek than calculus.

****

Steve meets a guy through the study program at a lecture they were required to attend. He’s not a right wing fundamentalist, and he’s not too far on the hippie side. He’s tall and what his Ma calls husky. He caught Steve when he tripped on the steps on the bus, and his arms were thick and warm. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes and his name is Marco.

Steve invites him to the Statue of Liberty to do dumb tourist things (item twenty-three on The List). Marco says it’s boring. Steve buys him popcorn and they wander around a little while. Marco complains that it hasn’t changed since he’d been there on a third grade field trip. He ditches Steve halfway through the date when he tries to buy them both keychains that light up and make a stupid noise that Steve thinks is supposed to be the Sound of Freedom.

Freedom sounds like a dying battery.

Of course he’d been there on a third grade trip. Every kid in the tri-state area goes to the Statue of Liberty on a third grade trip. That was the entire point of the date.

Marco probably didn’t read _Glamour_.

****

When Steve gets to college, dating has a whole different structure to it. Maybe they taught this when he was out sick, because somehow everyone else seems to get what’s going on except Steve. It’s nowhere near as cute than he was lead to believe, and far more boring.

It’s all this pressure and questions and he doesn’t understand the game of it. If someone asks him what his major is, why don’t they want to hear him talk about art? That’s stupid. He only asks questions if he’s actually interested in hearing the answers. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions of most people.

He says he doesn’t want to go to the football game with Max - it’s wet and cold and flu season and football doesn’t make any damn sense. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to spend time with the guy. He’d just prefer to do it inside, where it’s warm and they could be doing something that’s not mind-achingly dull. Or maybe they can go to a game when baseball season starts up again?

Apparently, turning someone down for a date on Saturday in lieu of a date six months in the future is bad form.

And when he invites someone over for paper airplane fights and building blanket forts (item seventeen on The List), they come in with expectations of other things.

“Sex, Steve,” Peggy says, sipping her tea daintily.

Steve glances around the walkway. Three years into this college thing and he’s still not used to the fact that a nun isn’t going to apparate out of nowhere and rap his knuckles just for _thinking_ the word ‘sex’. Sister Anne Marie used to do it every time.

“But I said, Peggy.”

“You said, ‘Would you like to come back to my room? My roommate’s out and we could build blanket forts.’”

“Yes.”

“Steve.”

“I was very clear.”

“Steve.”

“He just wanted me to jerk him off and then go home,” Steve complains, blowing a puff of air upwards to move his bangs out of his eyes. “Which was fun, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think that counts as a date.”

“No. That is definitely not a date. Perhaps you could - ”

“Whoa.” Steve stops in his tracks. They’ve followed the path past the athletic complex, near the batting cages. It’s one of the first really nice spring days, and every outdoor space is crowded. There’s this one guy, off to the side, bouncing the ball, letting it rest on his toes, tossing the bat in the air and flipping it around before catching it again.

It’s the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen in his life.

He hooks his fingers in the chain link fence and watches as the guy flips the bat up in the air with his foot and catches it, hitting the ball as it pops off his elbow. Perfect.

“Like what you see, short stuff?”

The guy isn’t even looking at him. “Do it again,” Steve says, not even caring about the nickname.

“Sure.”

He does it again, this time with a couple added flourishes.

“Clint,” the guy says, walking over and opening the gate.

Steve barely hears him. Up close, his arms are even more fantastic than Steve originally thought.  

“Peggy,” Peggy says, extending her hand. “And this is Steve. He’s usually more well-mannered than this.”

“Hiya,” Clint says.

“That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Steve says.

“Direct. I like you.”

****

Clint takes them to the restaurant he works at for lunch off campus. “I can get us free apps,” he says, and they are all over that like, well, like college kids offered free food.

They’ve seen each other a couple of times around campus. They all share a women’s studies class - Clint and Steve are the only two guys who aren’t in there specifically to score chicks.

“You’re the almost-late guy!” Peggy announces, glancing at Steve for confirmation.

Clint ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry about that. The place I’m working, I only have about ten minutes between the end of my shift and the start of class, so.”

“I thought you worked here?” Steve gestures around.

“Yup,” Clint says. “Here, there, and everywhere.”

“But will you still be doing it when you’re sixty-four?” Steve says.

Peggy rolls her eyes.

“Nice,” Clint says.

****

“So, Clint,” Steve says after class. Number Nine on The List. He takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about maybe getting all dressed up and test driving fancy cars. Um. Wanna come do that? With me?”

Clint laughs. “That sounds like. That sounds like a recipe for disaster. I thought you didn’t know how to drive?”

Steve blushes. “Right. That’s why I need - _want_ you to come.”

“Man, I would, I really would. The trainwreck factor alone! But I’ve got four papers due this week and an exam on Thursday. Sorry.”

Steve nods.

****

Steve tries to forget about The List. It was a stupid article in a stupid magazine he read when he was just a stupid kid anyway.

****

Peggy’s waiting for him in his room when his Pre-Goth Art class lets out. Her eyeliner’s smudged and her eyes are red. “Steve,” she says.

“It’s Ma, isn’t it.” It’s not a question.

Peggy drives him home and sits with Ma and holds her hand and fixes her hair and does her makeup and brings Steve food he doesn’t eat.

Peggy makes the phone calls and talks to people and helps Sister Anne-Marie pick out a dress and brings Steve more food he doesn’t eat.

Peggy stands with him next to the casket and gives the eulogy when Steve can’t speak and brings Steve a plate of food he doesn’t eat.

Steve’s sitting in the pew, not really crying. Not really doing much of anything. He tells Peggy to go on home, that he’d be right behind her. He’s going to, he is. He’s going to go home and  rest, because he’s had a scratchy throat since the funeral. But he can’t leave. He needs to stay.

Sister Anne-Marie sits down next to him. “Steve, you know our doors are always open to you. But honey, you need to sleep.”

Steve stares at his knees. “Do you think my mom is in hell?”

“What?” Sister Anne-Marie covers his hands with hers.

“Do you think my mom is in hell?” he whispers again. “Because of me? Because she never stopped loving me and she never told me not to be like this and -”

“Steven.” Sister Anne-Marie’s voice is sharp. “If your mother is in hell then I’ll be glad to join her.”

Steve breaks down in sobs, finally, and Sister Anne-Marie is there, whispering comforting words about love, stroking his hair while he sobs into her shoulder. All he knows is if Sister Anne-Marie says his mom’s soul is okay, then it is. It is and he can go home.

****

When he comes back to school, Clint meets him with a bottle of top-shelf vodka and a box of tissues.

Clint teaches him how to do shots and how to give blowjobs.

****

“Steve, do you ever eat?” John asks as he clears their plates. Steve’s is maybe half full still. It was fettuccine alfredo, and thick and heavy and delicious, but there was a ton of it.

“I eat,” Steve says, with a sigh instead of with heat because he knows what’s coming. This is among the many, many reasons why he doesn’t usually date. Hooking up is so much simpler. But John seemed nice, and smart, and stable. Steve really wanted something to take his mind off of. Well. Everything.

“Do you, though?” John returns from his kitchen and sits across from Steve, folding his hands on top of the table. John looks very much the part of the psychiatrist he’s trying to become. And apparently, he’s going to try to become Steve’s psychiatrist, no matter how much Steve insists he does not want nor need psychiatric assistance.

“Yes. I’m just picky,” Steve deflects. “And I have what they call a nervous stomach. And I was hoping for maybe an end to tonight that -”

John interrupts him and the flirty smile falls from his face. “And possibly you push your food onto other people in an attempt to compensate -”

“John, could you not analyze this, please?” Steve sighs.

“It’s important that we get to the root of your issues before we can hope to have a fulfilling relationship. For instance, why is it that you insist on seeking out and dating men who are much larger in stature than yourself?”

“I don’t want to do this,” Steve says. "All men are much larger in stature than myself. Most women are, too. Hell, a large percentage of ten-year-olds outweigh me. Can't we just have a nice evening?"

“You really need to confront this, though.”

“There’s nothing to confront."

"Classic deflection," John says with a smug smile. "If you have a problem, a disorder, I know a couple of specialists."

"A disorder? A disorder because I like tall guys?”

“Taller, _heavier_ guys.”

“Can’t a person just have a preference?” Steve stands up, walks over to the door and starts pulling his shoes on. He’s done with this nonsense. “Licking whipped cream off someone isn’t exactly unheard of, you know. It doesn’t make for a unit in deviant sexual behaviors 101. A class you haven’t even taken yet, thank you.”

"Don't run. It's time to admit -"

"Was this a date or an intervention?" Steve stands.

“It’s not an intervention. But that's an interesting choice of wording. When I did rounds with counselor Thoyer-"

"Thoyer’s a fucking hack. You didn’t do rounds with him, you sat in his broom-closet office at the hospital and bullshitted between patients!" Steve pulls his jacket off the coat rack and shoves his arms into the sleeves.

“Just because you don't agree with him doesn't make him wrong."

"Half of his credentials are from pray-the-gay-away programs!" Steve shouts. “He’s dangerous! He has no business talking to anyone about any kind of life decisions!”

"He worked for one camp specifically designed for soldiers dealing with Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. It was not a pray-the-gay-away program," John says calmly. "But he mentioned you might get defensive. He wasn't wrong about that."

"You talked to that fucker about me?"

"In general terms. Like a peer review. No names. But he brought to light some concerns I hadn't considered."

"Like what?"

"Like your preference for bottoming without actually allowing yourself to do so. Clearly it’s an attempt to feel coddled while avoiding your feelings of masculine inadequacy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Steve slams the door on his way out.

****

“No, but fuck Valentine’s Day,” Steve says, and he’s a little drunk and a lot angry. His hand is still steady where he’s sketching a design for a tattoo on Clint’s ribs, and Clint’s agreeing with his point, so he’s definitely not too drunk. Yet.

Clint waits for him to pause and reaches over for another one of the sugar cookies Steve made. They’re really good.

“There should be some kind of. Some kind of prize. If you can just not give in to this corporate bullshit holiday. You should get … money,” Steve says.

“A lot of money,” Clint agrees. “Like, three hundred dollars.”

“We should do that,” Steve says. “Like, all of us stay dateless for the whole Valentine’s Day, and whoever stays single longest gets a prize.” He sits back so Clint can see his ribs in the mirror. “Are you going to get it permanent now, or are you going to keep making me redraw it every week?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t trust anyone else not to fuck it up. If they’d let you behind the gun, I’d get it tomorrow.” Clint pulls his shirt back down and starts to button up his pants.

“What’s the rush?” Steve asks him, stilling his hands.

Clint smiles his cockiest smile at him. “Well, I guess it’s still” - he cranes his neck to find the clock - “three hours until Valentine’s Day. We won’t be in for any financial hardship if I let you jerk me off.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says, getting comfortable on his bed. “You’re a lazy ass after. I go first, then I’ll get you.”

“Deal.”

“Hey, I’ve got some more of the red velvet cookies left. Did you want a couple?”

Clint laughs and pushes his pants down his thighs before he kisses Steve right on the mouth. “How many times have I told you, dude? Food does not belong in my bedroom.”

****

Steve stops into a couple of tattoo shops around campus the next day. He checks into what it takes to work in a tattoo shop. Licensing, business practices, requisites and the like.

He hadn’t considered it before Clint mentioned it, not really, but it might be a good way to supplement his income.

He’s got a hundred and twenty four dollars and eighteen cents in his bank account right now, and Ma had more medical bills than life insurance. He’s not sure how he’s going to pay for this semester, let alone his degree.

****

Steve’s got enough left on the Starbucks gift card Peggy gave him for Christmas to get a huge amount of caffeine, and that’s what he intends to do. Except there’s this bad bottle-blonde with too much jewelry and too much perfume in front of him, making his eyes water, ordering some drink with about forty-three adjectives in front of it, and lecturing the barista on the definition of ‘venti.’

“Leave her alone,” Steve says.

“Excuse me?” The woman turns and then tilts her head downward.

Steve sighs. “Ma’am, leave her alone. She has to call it a venti, that’s her job.”

“Her _job_ is to do what I say. You know, if you’d lay off the caffeine and come by my gym, we could probably put some mass on you. The ladies would just eat you up.” She flips a business card out of her wallet with two fingers. It’s an impressive move.

“Not really interested in being eaten by ladies. And if you could make your own coffee, you wouldn’t need to call it a venti,” Steve snaps, refusing the card and stepping up to take his coffee.

“Thanks,” the barista says, watching the blonde leave the store. “I’m Darcy, Mr Steve-Please-Black-Americano-Biggest-You’ve-Got.”

“No problem, Darcy.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t call it a venti, either.” She winks at him.

****

Wednesday night before classes start back up again from spring break, Clint takes Steve to see his friend Natasha’s band play at some new club. Steve had a meeting earlier in the day to finalize some commissions for album art for a local band, and he’s just started a six-week tattooing apprenticeship at a biker bar, which was stressful enough for him without the constant worry that he’s not going to be able to clear his tuition payment in time. He could use a night out.  

When they walk in, Darcy the barista is there and waves them over, introduces Steve as her gallant white knight to her friend Jane. Jane introduces them to her friend Thor, the bouncer. Thor enthusiastically sings Steve’s praises as hero of service sector workers everywhere. Steve’s afraid soon he might literally start singing his praises, but Peggy comes back from the bar with their drinks and intervenes.

When the band comes on in a squeal of noise and fury, Clint pulls him up to point at the stage.

“That’s Tash, singing,” Clint yells in Steve’s ear. “We go back since before time began.”

“I know her,” Steve says.

“What?” Clint yells.

‘I know her. She’s a lawyer, right?”

Clint nods. “That’s her day job. Why she screams so much! Her friend Pep’s on bass. And Janet’s on keys, but she’s leaving soon for some internship.” Clint shrugs. “They’re looking for a replacement.”

“I can barely identify a piano,” Steve laughs. He had always been told college would broaden his horizons, but he can feel his world shrinking by the day.

Darcy tugs on Clint’s elbow and pulls his attention away at that point, so Steve hands his beer to Peggy. “I’m going in,” he says, and she nods.

Steve rockets around In the pit, frustration leaving his system, taking shoulders and feet and elbows and feeling the bruises start. Clint helps him up a couple of times, and he's right back In the thick of it. It’s glorious. He’s still got problems, but he doesn’t care about them right now.

Natasha’s band is definitely on the noise end of the punk spectrum, except the couple of songs the bassist sings - Piper? Pepper? Pepper. That’s it. But it’s loud and angry and the crowd is thriving and it’s exactly what Steve wanted from a night out.

****

The group of them hang around after the band’s set, closing down the bar. Everyone apparently knows everyone, and Steve loses track of how they’re all connected. He’s feeling loose and languid from the pit, relaxed and happy. There’s a small cut and a large bruise coming up on his cheek-bone that Peggy fusses over for him.

“Perils of being elbow height.” He shrugs and lets her fish some ice out of her gin and tonic.

“Oh, let me help,” Pepper says, calling out to her boyfriend Tony. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m not concussed, Pepper, I’m relaxed.” Steve blushes, not wanting to be the center of attention for this. “It’s okay, I can handle it. It’s not even that bad.”

“You’re not going to sue me, right, Poodle?” Tony says, handing Steve a baggie of ice. “Pepper, tell him he can’t sue. There’s a _pit at your own risk_ notice posted on every wall in this damn club.”

“He’s not going to sue, Tony. Sit down.” Pepper gently presses the ice to Steve’s cheek. “Now, Peggy, about those dresses.”

****

“Clint, you uh. Are you free this evening?” Steve looks up at him, pulling his inhaler out of his pocket. “You don’t have class on Fridays during summer term, right?” Two puffs and a deep breath.

Clint refills his Coke and then sits with him. He’s not technically on break, but the restaurant is dead this afternoon. “Oh. No, man. Hey, I really wish I was. But I have, you know. Um. A date.”

“Oh. No problem. There’s sure to be a party somewhere.” Steve smiles tiredly at him, pocketing his inhaler.

"Tash's band is playing again. You could go see them."

“Cool. Tell me about your date?” Steve focuses on his breathing.

Clint drops his head onto the table. “Steve, man, Tasha set us up. She said this guy would be fun. Fun. A lawyer.”

“A lawyer? Like Natasha?”

“Oh, it gets so much worse,” Clint says to the floor. “He’s a lawyer who left his very successful, very lucrative practice to work for an independent record label.” Clint bangs his head softly into the tabletop.

“Jackpot,” Steve says. “Guests.” Steve points at the businessmen coming through the door for lunch.

“Be back in a sec,” Clint stands. “Hey, want some food?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m good.” He wouldn’t mind eating, actually, but he’s pretty much out of money until the beginning of the month and he doesn’t like to take advantage of Clint’s discount.

He’s not surprised when Clint swings back by with chili cheese fries, though. “He’s trying to bring her with him.” Clint drops back into his chair.

“Who?”

“My date. He’s trying to bring Natasha to work at the label with him.”

“Oh. And this affects your date … how?”

“It doesn’t,” Clint says.

“Sure,” Steve says. He’s not sure where Clint’s going but sometimes he just needs to ramble. Steve lets him.

****

Halfway through Natasha’s band’s set, Darcy on keys now that Janet’s gone, Steve nods and agrees to go home with a guy he met.

Nice enough guy, shoulders wider than Steve is tall, and a little starter beer gut now that he’s on the far side of twenty-five. He blows Steve and works his fingers inside him and then Steve returns the favor.

When it’s all done, the guy says, “Hey, man, thanks. The door locks automatically, so just make sure you pull it to, okay?” before he rolls over and goes to sleep.

****

Phillips, the old military guy Steve’s tattooing with right now, finishes Steve’s collarbone. It’s his third overall, when you add it to the baseball stitches around his elbows he got on his seventeenth birthday with a fake ID Peggy somehow procured for him. Now _on va voir_  sits on his collarbone, stretching across from throat to shoulder in fancy script.  

When he tries to settle up, Phillips waves him off. “You know, Rogers, this shop’s been good to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I’m not going to be around forever. I’m going to retire and spend my days out on a beach in Mexico.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next week.”

Steve looks up in shock.

“So you’re going to take care of the shop.”

“You’re going to give me your business?”

“What I’m doing is allowing you to take care of interested parties who I can no longer assist.  Assuming you can buy me out.”

“Considering you’ll be in Mexico.” Steve smiles.

“Damn, Rogers. You got a brain in that little body after all.” Phillips crunches into a crispy chocolate chip cookie Steve brought him. He makes an approving noise and hands Steve an extra bottle of unscented lotion for his tattoo and some paperwork.

****

“Hey, Stan?”

“Steve.”

“Steve, right. Make sure you don’t forget anything when you take off. I’ll never be able to convince my girlfriend your boxers are just a pair of mine she’s never seen before.”

****

“Eagles and Arrows?”

“Yup,” Steve says, finishing painting the design on the window.

“That’s. For me, though?”

“Yup. Phillips - Eagles, and you - Arrows.”

“But.”

“This whole thing was your idea, Clint. I wouldn’t have any of this without the two of you. You seeing that lawyer guy again tonight?”

"No, not tonight. But." Clint looks away awkwardly. "I don't think we should, you know. This could be something serious. I think."

"Hey, I wasn’t hitting on you. Genuine curiosity. Is he treating you right?"

"Don't jinx it. He says he wants to talk," Clint mutters.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

****

Steve brings a guy he met at his shop to the club. He’d finally admitted he wasn’t on hiatus or sabbatical or taking a semester off. He’s a college dropout who stabs people with ink and needles for a living.

Natasha has him coming in to her office to go over designs for some shirts and maybe that’ll open the door for some other commissions. He did the posters for the band playing tonight, and he’s doing really, actually well.

“Why didn’t you just get student loans?” Terry asks, again.

“Because I’m an art major, or I was. My future employability is already questionable, and I don’t want to be like Clint working four jobs just to break even in ten years.” Steve would feel bad talking behind Clint’s back, but it’s true. Clint fell asleep halfway through a sentence on him the other day. Besides, Clint isn’t there. He’s out with his boyfriend. “My lack of outstanding debt helped a hell of a lot toward getting the money to take over the shop, too.”

“Your friendship with Tony Stark helped you take over the shop.”

“It was a sound business decision. Tony knows his business, gets this demographic, and a tat shop with that kind of customer base built in is much more likely to succeed than if it was just me and my limited contacts otherwise. It makes financial sense to diversify like this. And he only fronted twenty percent, with a buy-out option.”

“Sure, honey. You just keep telling yourself that. It was strictly a Tony Stark financial decision, and has nothing to do with that ass of yours.”

****

Mike doesn’t really like this type of music, and he frowns in disapproval when Steve and Peggy’s girlfriend Maria come back from the pit bruised and out of breath.

“At least eat some of the nachos,” Mike says.

Steve shakes his head and gulps at his water. “No thanks. I need to catch my breath first,” Steve pants out. "But if you want some?" Steve pushes the plate toward him.

Mike rolls his eyes and takes off sometime in the next half hour. Steve’s not really sure when.

****

Steve found Jimmy making out with some other guy in the bathroom at the club. Danny wouldn’t kiss him during sex. Alex decided he wasn’t actually gay enough to put a penis in his mouth, but it was okay if Steve did it.

“And Bobby never got a round,” Peggy says, handing Steve the ice cream that is now mandatory at these slumber parties.

“Robert,” Steve corrects automatically.

“He never got around?” Clint asks, passing Natasha the pint of chocolate chip cookie dough they’re sharing. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“A. Round. She’s saying he was cheap,” Steve says. “Which he was.”

“It didn’t seem that you two had much in common,” Pepper says. Pepper, as the newest member of their sleepover crew, has the honor of her own ice cream. But she’s offering it to everyone every couple of bites, anyway.

Something Richard, the latest guy Steve brought around to meet the group, had never done before dumping him for the classic reason of _it’s not you it’s me_. Mostly Steve declines when people offer him food, but it’s nice to be asked. Ice cream was made for sharing. (Item number fourteen on The List that Steve absolutely did not still have memorized.)

“You can do better, Steve,” Clint says.

“Yes,” Natasha purrs. “Tell us about your love life, won’t you?”

Clint cringes. He knows better than to leave her an opening like that. “It’s going, you know, really well.”

“Really well?” Peggy asks, teasing.

Clint grins. “Yeah. Really well.”

****

A guy walks into the shop. Jesus, it sounds like the start of a bad joke, but that’s all Steve can see. He’s backlit by the sun, this bright yellow-white light behind him, and he’s tall and fairly well-built and good-looking.

“Hi,” Steve says. The guy smiles, and that’s it.

“Hey. I was hoping I could talk to someone in charge.” The guy glances around him, dismissively.

“That would be me. I’m Steve.” Steve smiles, holding out his hand. The guy’s aloofness is kind of hot, in a too-cool-for-you, I-have-secrets-and-I’m-not-sharing kind of way.

“Oh,” and now there’s a smile, charming and even hotter, in a trying-to-impress kind of way. That’s nice. Steve usually doesn’t like it when people try to impress him, it’s disingenuous. But this is nice. Someone making an effort. It's ... nice.

“I wanted to see if I could leave some flyers? My band’s got a gig coming up. Looks like you get some good street traffic.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve says. “The bulletin board is over there, but if I could have a couple? I know a couple of other places that are pretty popular. I could put some up for you? Help out?”

The guy hands some over and the artwork is, frankly, hideous. But it’s probably not the guy’s fault. No pen calluses on his fingers. He’s got nice fingers.

“So this is your band?” Steve follows him to the bulletin board, hovering a little too much and completely unable to help it.

‘Huh?” The guy glances back over his shoulder. “What? Yeah, I’m the singer so it’s my band.”

****

“Steve, just be careful,” Peggy says.

“It’s not like that,” Steve finishes taping the flyer to her shop’s window. And counter. And dressing room doors.

“Don’t you think Grant is a little … smarmy?”

“No. He’s … charming. Demanding. He’s got high standards. He’s uncompromising.”

“You’re uncompromising. He’s a dick,” Clint chimes in.

“I’d call it ambitious.”

“There’s ambition, and then there’s usery,” Peggy counters.

“There’s nothing happening.”

“I know your face-of-eternal-optimism, Steven,” Peggy scolds him.

“He’s not even into guys, Margaret.”

“That’s why it’s called optimism.” Peggy glances at Clint, but Steve can’t read her expression.

****

“So, Steve, how much would something like this run a guy like me?” Grant slides one of the flash books over to Steve, pointing at a squid-octopus type thing wrapped around a nautical star.

“Well, that design in that size, you’re looking at maybe two, two-fifty?”

“And that’s with my friends discount?” Grant squeezes Steve’s shoulders, a rough massage that would probably feel good if he would lighten up his touch a little bit.

“I could maybe do it for one-seventy-five?” Steve says, twisting out of Grant’s grip and rolling his neck.

“But it’s kind of your fault I don’t have that kind of cash, man. I mean, you said you’d talk me up, and we got nothing. How many of those flyers did I give you? What did you do, just put em in your drawer and forget about them?”

“No, I put them up. It’s hard to get a good crowd on Tuesday. It’s, you know, a Tuesday,” Steve says.

“Come on, Steve. I just want a tat,” Grant whines. “You know it’s important to look the part. I gotta sell the image along with the music if I’m going to get signed.”

“I don’t think that’s true. The music should speak for itself.”

“Oh really?” Grant leans into his space. “Those glasses you’re wearing? The image of a tattoo artist in glasses shouldn’t matter, right, Steve? But I’ve seen rich bitches wanting fucking angel wings on their shoulder blades take one look at those coke-bottles and turn right around. You’ve seen it, too. So don’t tell me image doesn’t matter.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

****

Steve thought there had been another walk-in waiting for him, but when he settles up with his customer, she’s not around.

Neither is Grant.

Maybe she got cold feet. Maybe Grant’s trying to talk her around. He’s good at that, Steve’s seen him do it before. Take nervous girls outside, and bring them back in ten or so minutes later, calmer.

Steve pushes his glasses up his nose and waits, but neither of them come back.

****

“Damn, that guy’s gotten huge,” Grant says. He points at the drummer for a band he used to sing for. “Creative differences,” he explains, even though no one needed to ask. Grant left all his former bands due to creative differences.

“Let me guess,” Clint mutters. “They wanted to practice, and you wanted to score.” Clint leaves to get another drink. Coulson’s not with them, though Steve isn’t sure where he is, and Clint seems fairly unhappy about it. He said they didn’t break up, and they’re not fighting, but he didn’t want to talk about it, so Steve let it go.

“They weren’t serious enough. Wouldn't stay true to our sound. I quit. Drummer knocked up his girlfriend. Looks like he put on the baby weight, though.”

“I think he looks good,” Steve says. He’s rubbing at his eyes where his contacts are bothering him, but the guy Grant’s pointing out does look good. Soft and thick, with drummer’s shoulders.

“You’re such a fucking chubby chaser, Steve-o!”

Steve ducks his head. “It’s not that.”

“Come on, you think that guy’s beer gut is nicer than this?” Grant lifts his shirt to show off his abs and a light dusting of hair trailing into his waistband.

Clint rolls his eyes and heads back up to the bar without sitting down. Tony and Pepper are there, too. They didn’t even try to come by the table.

Honestly, yes, Steve does like the beer gut better than rock hard abs. Steve shrugs. “He looks good.”

“You got messed-up tastes, kid.”  

****

Clint always thinks he’s quieter than he is. He leans over to Coulson, who is watching the band with a look of, well, disdain on his face. “They suck, right, Sir?”

Coulson purses his lips. He nods slightly.

Steve sags. That’s what he was afraid of. “Sorry, Coulson. I think they were better at rehearsal?”

“No they weren’t!” Tony shouts, gesturing at the mostly-empty bar. The pit is just two disgruntled teenage boys, bashing into each other and stalking in circles angrily.

****

“You said you’d talk me up to Coulson. He said our sound wasn’t what he was looking for.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely my fault.” Steve shrugs. “I don’t control the music industry.”

“Sure, but we put that show on specifically for your friend to come see it. We turned down a gig across town that another label guy could have been at.” Grant leans in, trails his fingertip down Steve’s arm. “Come on. I feed off the crowd, and that crowd sucked. There was no energy. You know if I could get a decent showing, I could really rock out there.”

Steve sighs. “I can try to talk to Tony. He might be able to get you one more show. But if the turnout isn’t there. I mean, it’s a business. Tony runs it for fun, but it’s still about making money.”

Grant hugs him. “Since when do you give a shit about money, man?”

“I’m not saying that. Just, Tony’s got to turn a profit.”

“Sellout.” He pushes him away.

“Grant - “

“No, come here. I’m kidding.” Grant pulls him in and gives him a hard noogie. It hurts a little, but Steve ignores it in favor of the way Grant’s arm feels around his shoulders.  

****

Steve shuts the door to the alley quietly behind him and sits in the stock room for a few minutes. He didn’t want to interrupt.

When the door opens again, the girl’s changed her mind about getting a tattoo. Grant has lipstick on his zipper.

****

Coulson calls Steve to ask if he’s seen Clint.

“No, uh,” Steve says. “What time is it?” He reaches on the nightstand for his glasses.

"It’s a little after three. He said he was going to the shop to help you close it down. I asked him to check in by one.”

“Oh, I uh.” Steve coughs. “I wasn’t feeling hot. Peggy sent me home about eleven. I guess I fell asleep.”

“That’s the other line, feel better.” Coulson hangs up.

****

“Clint?” Steve looks up when the bell over the doors rings. “Jesus, Clint, what happened to your face?”

“Hey,” Clint grins, then winces when it pulls at his split lip. “You should see. Actually, no. Do not see the other guy. Is this _Styx_?”

“Fuck off, Styx is awesome.”

“Okay, _Tony_.”

“Again, I say fuck. Off. What happened to your face?”

Clint starts reorganizing the jewelry case up front. “Grant and I had a little ...” Clint rocks his hand back and forth. “Discussion. He’s probably not going to be comfortable hanging around here anymore.”

“What? What happened? Did he do this?”

“It’s fine. Misunderstanding about what is and is not okay to say to people. Nothing a night in the slammer didn’t clear up.”

“You were in _jail_?”

“Please, as if you’ve never been in jail.”

“Political protests are not the same as,” Steve waves a hand at Clint’s bruised face. "That.”

“Also, they thought you were twelve and spent more time checking to see if your ID was fake instead of processing you.”

"That is not the issue here," Steve says.

"But it is true," Clint smiles, wincing again.

****

“I’m only going to say this once,” Steve announces to the room at large. “I can be, on occasion, a terrible judge of character.”

“We’re not here for that, honey,” Pepper says, giving Steve a pint of ice cream and a spoon.

Clint and Natasha are already curled up in their nest of blankets on the floor. Clint hates sleeping alone. Natasha, Steve guesses, doesn’t mind indulging him.

“You can say it. You can say you told me so. I should have listened. Where was my brain?”

“In your -”

Natasha’s hand covers the end of Clint’s sentence. Not that it was necessary for him to finish it.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Peggy returns from the bathroom with her hair wrapped in a scarf to set overnight and sits next to Steve, pulling him in for a hug. “Sometimes guys are just dicks.”

Steve snorts. “Don’t I know it. I'm done. I'm off guys entirely.”

The others nod. They've all said it once or twice, pronouns notwithstanding. The difference is, Steve means it.

****

“Steve, if you cannot remain upright on the floor, I won’t be able to allow you back in the pit,” Thor says, lifting Steve up as if he weighs nothing.

“Stop me,” Steve spits, turning back and throwing himself into the pit.

****

Steve draws.

Clint and Coulson move in together.

Steve draws, expands his shop’s hours, and has a steady stream of customers coming through his doors to keep him busy.

Tony and Pepper bring home this guy named Bruce from a business trip. He seems nice. It takes Steve three months to realize they’re all … together. Three months and Steve accidentally walking in on them.

Mrs O’Leary’s standard poodle keeps getting loose, and Steve spends most of the nights in July helping her try to figure out how he’s getting out and where he’s going.

In August, he draws and somehow manages to catch pneumonia.

Peggy yells at him the entire drive to the ER. Steve rests until he feels better, then spends too much time working and clubbing and not dating.

Coulson publishes a book. Steve double-checks, and it was a surprise to everyone except Clint, so Steve doesn’t feel so bad not knowing about it. He does feel bad for not knowing about it when Coulson shows him the contract for cover art that is absolutely ridiculous.

Steve draws and makes a lot of money that month. He helps his new neighbor move into an apartment on the third floor. Somehow they manage even with her broken English and his Spanish by way of French. It doesn’t take much language in common to carry boxes upstairs, though. Even better since when he’s done helping all he wants to do is sit down and never move again.

Thor and Jane and Darcy head out on their yearly trip around the European dance music circuit. Steve submits his work to a couple of invite-only convention committees. He’s not terribly hopeful, but Tony tells him to, and Steve’s always believed in _nothing ventured, nothing gained_.

Peggy and Maria move in together just in time for a disastrous first Thanksgiving in their new apartment together. There’s enough wine to make it funny, though, and the diner opens back up promptly at 4am for the Black Friday crowd.

Steve draws.

Steve’s disqualified from the Valentine’s Day contest, so he hangs out with Darcy and does a frankly unhealthy number of shots. Darcy rubs his back when he pukes in the alley and promises not to tell Tony.

Tony finds out anyway, but for once he doesn’t say anything about it. He just hands Steve some club soda and doesn’t comment.

****

It’s fucking late and Steve’s eyes are burning. He needs to get up and close the shop; there’s nothing happening tonight anyway. But he’s trying to get this damn werewolf right. He doesn’t usually do fantasy or supernatural, but Coulson’s sequel is already blowing up the charts and its release date is still months away.

The check worth triple what he'd normally charge was a nice incentive, too.

The bells on the shop’s front door ring, causing Steve to look up. “Hey, man,” he says to the gorgeous guy who just walked in. He blinks, hoping he hadn’t fallen asleep at the drafting table. Peggy threatened to lock him out if he did that again.

“It’s too late for a tattoo tonight, but if you know what you want, we can make an appointment for later?”

The guy tugs at the front of his button-down, and that’s just not fair. Not while Steve's still firm in his resolve for a life of celibacy. It's been going well for the last year. No reason to change that up now.  

Especially not for a hot guy who walked into the shop looking like Steve’s definition of a wet dream come to life. No reason.

The guy says something about needing a cover-up, rolling up his sleeve, and damn if his arms aren’t as impressive as the rest of him. Steve’s eyes catch on the shiny pink scarring that criss-crosses the customer’s arm. He’ll have to be careful of that, if he wants work over it. Scar tissue can get oddly irritated, can take ink strangely. Sometimes it’s numb, sometimes it’s incredibly tender. There are the textural differences he could try to work into a piece, might have to explain why something might not work or will have to be resized if Mr. Gorgeous already has a design in mind.  

“Are you Steve? Clint sent me, said I should talk to Steve.”

Steve absently confirms, an idea already springing to mind. He reaches out, pulling the guy’s arm forward, turning it over, ghosting the first two fingers of his hand over his wrists, up around his elbows. The skin dimples in a way Steve’s seen before, the edges of the scars are ragged and ugly. It probably means emergency first aid, and there’s a spiderweb of scarring that ranges all the way over the guy’s  collarbone where it’s peeking out from the shirt.

He has a tat, a terrible, faded, blurry thing. Ballpoint poke job. Doesn’t look to be prison ink, but it’s the same caliber. Steve’s seen too damn many of these. It’s bisected by one of the scars, the edges cleaner, clearly made by a doctor instead of whatever trauma caused the others.

“Is that ...” Steve turns the guy’s arm more to the left to get a better look at the blurry blue ink. “A giraffe? With a halo?”

The guy tries to snatch his arm back, but Steve holds fast. “No. Look, I just need a cover-up, okay?” His full cheeks are pink. “Gimme a nautical star or something the scars won’t get in the way of.” He’s mumbling, looking around at the pictures on the wall.

Steve looks into his eyes. “Clint did not send you to _me_. For _flash_.” He reaches into the drawer for a sharpie, the idea solidifying for him. “What’s your name?” he asks, sketching the quick little outline for a cyberpunk kind of arm, something that will incorporate the scaring, hide it and use it and enhance it as much as hide it.  

“Bucky,” the guy whispers, and Steve can tell he’s watching the nib of the pen, too.

‘Well, Bucky. It’s just ideas, just outlines, but I think this will work for you. I think we could do this. How about you?”

Steve sits back and smiles at him, hoping this was okay. Sometimes he forgets that people don’t always know what’s going on in his head and he has to tell them his plans. As many times as he’s been sighed at and explicitly told, he should probably remember that by now.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, still looking at his arm. “Yeah, I think that could work.”

****

Peggy comes into the shop the next day to find Steve smiling and staring off into space. He knows he looks like an idiot. He just doesn’t care.

“Did you go to the club last night, Steve?”

“No.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.” Steve tries to keep a straight face, but he knows it isn’t working.

“Who is it then?”

“No one. It’s nothing.”

“This is not your I’ve got an idea for art smile, Steve.”

“Sure it is.”

Peggy sighs. “Not a customer.”

“No, it’s. There’s nothing. It’s not like that,” Steve looks down, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. “He was just. There was a customer last night, right before close. He wants a cover-up, bad tat and worse injury. Lots of detail work, probably going to take twice as long due to the tissue damage. But that’s all.”

“That is not all,” Peggy accuses.

“Don’t you have a store to run?”

“No.” She tosses her hair. “Last month I was a business hours special, for all those women Pepper brought over from her Professional Women’s Retreat. This month I have to recapture my hipster base market with obscure hours. I’m opening from seven in the evening until  midnight every other day until May.”

Steve shakes his head. “I really, really do not understand your people.”

“That’s because you’re a true ar-tiste,” Clint says, coming into the shop. “What are we talking about?”

****

Bucky hangs around with them a lot. But he seems to just enjoy being there, like he wants the company. Not like he’s there for other reasons.

He’s always happy to help out in anyway, but he doesn’t follow Steve into the supply room on any of the many, many times he announces, loudly, that he’s going to go check the stock.

He hangs around with them after the shop closes sometimes, but he doesn’t jerk his head at the alley when Steve catches his eye.

He doesn’t pull Steve to him outside of the club.

He doesn’t press him into one of the darkened corners.

He doesn’t drop to his knees when Steve stands a little too close to him.

Nothing.

Steve can handle it. Bucky’s not interested in fucking him. Just because he’s exactly Steve’s type, everything he’s ever wanted, tall and broad and hard muscles under a nice padded layer of softness, lips to kill for and eyes Steve can’t even think about.

But he’s not interested. So, okay, they can be friends, because he’s also nice and smart and fun and exciting and has a whole mysterious past that Steve wants to know everything about even if he never gets to suck his cock.

Clint spends the whole afternoon trying to get Bucky to tell him what his type is, because Clint’s convinced Bucky wants Steve. Steve smacked him on the back of his head and told him to mind his own business.

“Yeah, baby,” Clint says, winking at him and rubbing the back of his head. “Hurts so good.”

“Shut up,” Steve mutters.

“Oh, pudding pop!” Tony says. “There’s a difference between good hurt and bad hurt!”

“Yeah,” Clint pipes up. “Just because you bruise so bad when guys fuck you…”

“Shut up, Clint.” Steve blushes to his bones, he’s sure of it, because Bucky is right there, his head jerked up, staring at Clint and studiously not looking at Steve.

Clint and Tony start heatedly discussing something, complete with Tony’s wild hand gestures, so Steve leaves them to it to go check their stock room. They probably need more towels or gloves or … anything that isn’t Bucky not wanting to think about fucking Steve. Which he definitely does not want.  

****

Steve unrolls the final design for Bucky’s arm and steps back, letting Bucky take a long look at it. It’s extensive, it’s a pretty big investment of time and money and pain, and he wants Bucky to be sure this is exactly what he wants.

“It’s amazing,” Bucky says, and Steve thinks he means it. But when he looks at Bucky’s face, he looks like he might throw up, so maybe it’s not as good as Steve thought it was. Or it’s too much. Or maybe it wasn’t something he really wanted anyway.  

Clint pulls Bucky away, and Steve would resent him if he didn’t know how devoted Clint was to Coulson. And if he didn’t know how not interested in him Bucky is.

When the door shuts, Steve looks at Bruce. “You’re the only emotionally stable person in the room, so I’m asking you.” He looks at Tony. “ _Only_ Bruce, Tony. Did I do something wrong?”

“I think he just really liked it, Steve.”

“And people usually bolt when they see stuff they like?”

Bruce shrugs. “ _That_ is a question much better directed toward Tony.”

Tony sits up in mock outrage. “That is not fair. That is ill-gotten information. Insider trading. You cannot use things Pepper told you about my past behaviors that you have not experienced first hand against me.”

“The only reason I’m sitting here now is that Pepper refused to help you run off in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t we still discussing Steve’s problem? Is that not what we’re doing anymore? Steve, let us, please, get to the root of your problem.”

“What problem?” Steve asks innocently. Tony and Bruce bickering is much, much preferable to wondering why Bucky and Clint are still in the alley and if they’re trying to come up with the best way of telling Steve that Bucky doesn’t want this design in his skin forever.

****

Bucky had been so awesome at the club, standing up against some fucker starting shit in the pit. Bucky had waded right in, helping people up and out of the way, had Steve’s back. Hadn’t made fun of Steve for punching the guy and getting punched twice as hard in return. Just stepped in to keep the crowd off Steve.

When Clint jumped in, Steve had taken a knee to the ribs. He’s not sure whose knee it was, could have been his own for all he knows. These things happen. But he really hadn’t wanted to suffer the indignities of his stupid-ass body rebelling against him on the floor in front of everyone. Also his nose hadn’t stopped bleeding yet from the fist the asshole threw.

So he slips out, cleans up, forces his lungs to remember how to take in air. He spends the time focusing on his breathing and mentally shuffling through cookie recipes to take his mind off the pain.  

He was thinking chocolate chip on the way over to the little market between the club and his apartment, but he wants to go special. Bucky deserves something a little less common. But nothing too complicated, Steve is sore and getting sorer, and he has a long day ahead of him tomorrow.

Snickerdoodles.

Sweet and a little spicy. Simple and complex. Metaphors, jesus. He just wants to make some thank-you cookies, not provide a commentary on baked goods as substitutes for clear communication.

He takes his basket to the register. “Shit, Arturo, I forgot my bags again,” he says, smiling up at the cashier.

“‘Course you did, man. You always do. Gonna start telling my boys you don’t care about the environment and shit,” Arturo says. “We be outside your shop clinking bottles like _The Warriors_.”

Steve laughs. He had done some cover up work for Arturo, turning his gang tats into birds in flight, and a huge cross down his chest. Arturo paid him back by sharing his extensive, and quite personal, knowledge of gang and prison tattoos.

There wasn’t much he could do about the _thug life_ in a half circle across Arturo’s expanding waistline until he decided what he wanted, but Steve told him that as soon as he knew, “mi chair es su chair.”

“Stick to English, white boy. And bring me some of them cookies!”

****

“I’m not going back into the army, oh my god, no!” Bucky says, the words coming out of him in a rush.

“Oh.” Steve glances at the cookies he brought, pulling them back to him. He’s a little embarrassed now. “Good.”

Bucky snatches the container back and eats a cookie. “Or dieting, fuck that.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Steve says.

“Yeah?’ Bucky says around a mouthful of crumbs. He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You shouldn’t. You’re gorgeous like this.” He feels his face grow hot. “I mean, you’d be good-looking no matter what. But this is nice, this is good.”

“Damn straight.” Bucky smiles, and Steve knows he’s laughing at him. But he’s not being mean. It’s like they’re on the same side of the joke.

Bucky pushes at Steve’s shoulder. “Come get dinner with me.”

“Sure,” Steve says. It’s time to close the shop anyway. And he’s hungry. And he’s always ready to spend more time with Bucky. It definitely doesn’t hurt that it’ll be spending time with Bucky eating. Given the way Bucky makes sure to catch his eye before he eats another of the almond cookies, Bucky’s aware.

Bucky asks him about how he got into music, nods along to Steve’s well rehearsed - _and short_ \- answer of, “You know, traditional way. Poor, sickly, outcast kid in the city, punk spoke to me.”

Then he keeps asking, encourages him to keep talking. Steve doesn’t have a prepared response to that, so he kind of rambles, tearing apart his food before eating it, his fingers itching for a pencil. He steals one of Bucky’s onion rings, and forces himself to stop talking about baseball. Bucky probably doesn’t care about baseball.

Unfortunately, he stops talking about baseball by talking about art. At least he knows Bucky likes his art. Bucky’s always coming over to the drafting table to see what he’s working on. Not to mention the significant chunk of change he’s spent on getting one of Steve’s tattoos.

He notices Bucky’s empty plate and looks at his mostly full one. He forces himself to shut up. “Hey, do you want some of my fries?” He’s really not trying to force more food on Bucky. He just doesn’t want this date to end. And if Bucky wants to prolong the date by finishing off some more fries, or maybe some pie, Steve’s certainly not opposed to the idea.

Bucky reaches across and takes a few from Steve’s plate. “Sometimes when you’re drawing …” he prompts.

“Oh. Um. You know, sometimes the pictures won’t come out. I can’t make my brain slow down enough to get all the images on the page before they slip away.” Steve shrugs. “Music helps.”

“I can see that. Want a milkshake?” Bucky says.

This, Steve knows. This is the polite end to the dinner. The _hey this was great, I’ll call you_ before he never hears from the guy again. Steve shakes his head. “But you should get one.”

“Only if you tell me more,” Bucky says.

Bucky walks Steve home, and Steve’s sure to go slowly. He knows Bucky’s probably pretty full. He can’t help but be aware of the fact that Bucky had two burgers, onion rings, his own side of fries, most of Steve’s fries, and now a milkshake that was about the size of Connecticut.

He’s very aware of it.

When Bucky recovers from his ice cream headache and pulls Steve into a kiss, Steve instantly deepens it, licking into Bucky’s mouth and pulling on his lip ring. Bucky leans back against the wall and Steve slides his hands into Bucky’s back pockets, squeezing his ass and slotting his body in between Bucky’s legs. He can feel Bucky’s stomach between them, full and warm.

And then Steve realizes what he’s doing. He really shouldn’t do this. He knows better than to sleep with his friends. He knows better than to try to make friends with the people he sleeps with. And too late, Bucky’s already his friend.

So he backs up, adjusts his clothing and carries on walking, picking the conversation up right where he remembers leaving it. Something about the Pixies.

He’s very careful, and keeps the security door between them when he says goodbye. “I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow, right? For your arm?” Because maybe his attempt to try not to slut it up on the street corner turned Bucky off of the whole thing.

“Of course,” Bucky says, and he steps forward, curves his palm around the door.

He leans in, and Steve rushes to cut him off. “Okay, goodnight!” he chirps, and kisses Bucky chastely on the lips. He was aiming for his cheek, but he had to stretch and the door was in the way and he overcompensated.

He turns around and tells himself go inside, go inside for each of the four steps he takes before he freezes. “Oh, fuck it,” he says and turns around.

Steve yanks the door open and grabs Bucky by the shirt, pulling him in and kissing him, telling him between kisses how this is not what they should be doing, that he needs to go, that he needs to _go inside right now_. Mrs. O’Leary will be leaving for the morning shift any minute, and her giant poodle will be coming with her.

Bucky pushes him back by his hips, and Steve absolutely does not focus on the way his hands curve around his hipbones, the way Bucky could probably pick him up and drop him back down and angle him just right on his dick if he wanted to.

“You know, we don’t have to give the neighbors a show. You’ve got a whole room right upstairs I bet Mrs O’Leary’s never even been in, right?” Bucky says.

Steve pulls away a little, unclenching his fists and smoothing out the wrinkles in Bucky’s shirt.

“I. Um, yeah, but. I.” _Never should have come back to the door_ , Steve stops himself from saying.

“Steve, it’s okay. You go upstairs, I’ll go home, I’ll make myself _comfortable_.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s joking, given the way he stresses the word and squeezes his hip before letting him go.

“And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Asshole.”

“That’s really more of a third date thing, isn't it?"

Steve watches Bucky leave and then goes upstairs. He deliberately takes his time getting ready for bed, brushes his teeth, takes out his contacts.

Then he lies down in his bed and pushes off his boxers. There’s really no way he’s going to take any kind of time tonight.

Not when he can still remembers how Bucky felt pressed against him, all hard muscle under that softness, throwing off heat and pushing against Steve’s stomach.

Not when it’s been forever since Steve even thought about making out with anyone, let alone did it.

Not when Steve can just imagine how it would feel to sink himself down on Bucky’s dick, let Bucky control him, move him with his grip on his hips, thrust up into him while Steve rubs himself off on the curve of Bucky’s belly.

****

He’s not going to move too fast. He’s not going to ruin this. He’s not going to build it up into more than it is.

It’s different, hooking up with friends and hooking up with strangers. There are rules. He’s going to stick to them. No matter how many fries and onion rings and shakes Bucky eats.

No matter how many truly terrible jokes Bucky makes to put him at ease after Steve maybe forgets his rules and damn near humps him through the security door in the lobby of his apartment building.

No matter how many times Bucky looks at him and smiles, like they have some kind of shared secret.

Pretty soon, his allergies are going to act up or he’ll get a cold and he’ll start snoring, or he’ll get in another fight, or he’ll bake too many cookies. The list goes on and on. And Bucky will stop looking at him fondly. His eyes will just glide right by and Steve will have to call it off then.

He really doesn’t want to get dumped by Bucky. The more time they spend together, the more he really doesn’t want to get dumped by Bucky.

Bucky’s a good friend to everyone, not just Steve. He’ll want to stay part of the group. Steve wants him to stay part of the group. Natasha likes him, and Clint clearly adores him. Tony and Pepper and Bruce think he’s fun to be with. Peggy and Maria both gave him the least subtle thumbs up ever when they found out they were going to go out again. Seal of approval all the way around.

So the minute it seems like Bucky’s pulling back, Steve will break it off. It’ll be easier on everyone if the relationship ends because of Steve. They’re all used to that. No one will have to take sides. It’ll be awkward for a few weeks, but Tony will say something horrible, or Clint will do something ridiculous, or Natasha will smack them both on the back of the head - that one’s got odds, really - and they’ll go back to normal.

****

Steve’s refusing to think about anything other than the tattoo he’s working on at the moment. He’s not thinking about his date with Bucky. He’s not thinking about how they’re going to leave as soon as this tat’s done.

He’s not thinking about how this tat was supposed to be done fifteen minutes ago and Bucky’s still not there.

And then the bells ring over the door and Steve hears Peggy say hello to Bucky and Steve is not going to look, he’s not, because this tattoo is going on someone’s body forever and it needs his full attention. All of it.

Which is good, because when he finally does get a good look at Bucky, it’s all he can do to not swallow his tongue. Bucky’s poured into his clothes, all tight, worn-out jeans and a shirt that may have fit him six months ago, but only barely does so now. Bucky’s tattoo is showing, dark lines against his skin, aiding in the seriously dangerous look he’s working.

And he’s wearing eyeliner.

“Peggy’s going to close the shop,” Steve says from the sink. “I just have to wash up and we’ll go. So,” Steve coughs. “So, are you driving?”

“No. I don’t drive. Anymore,” Bucky says. He sounds pained, and when Steve glances over his shoulder at him, he pulls at the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t drive either,” Steve says, hoping to lighten the mood. “Lived in the city all my life, no reason to learn.”

“Right,” Bucky says. “So, bus?”

Steve nods. “Bus.”

Steve recognizes the horrible woman from the coffee shop sitting on the bus. The man she’s with, husband probably, given the enormous ring she’s wearing, is yelling at someone about regular maintenance. She’s tried to give Steve her card every time they’ve run into each other there for the past three years, ruder and ruder each time. And she still lectures every new barista about the true meaning of _grande_.

Bucky sits and Steve notices that while she’s mildly annoyed by Steve’s existence, she actually seems a little bit afraid of Bucky. Steve gets it. If he wasn’t so damn turned on, he might be a little afraid as well.

Steve sits on Bucky’s lap, careful because Bucky’s thighs are thick and sturdy, but Steve’s ass is, frankly, bony as all hell. Sometimes he hurts _himself_ sitting down. “I know her,” He whispers in Bucky’s ear. Bucky holds him in his lap by his hips as the bus lurches to a start.

“She’s rude to baristas and she told me once I didn’t have to _settle_ for boys. I’d probably find a nice girl if I’d just bulk up a bit. I’m not using you, I promise. But.”

When Bucky grins at him and asks, “Want to fuck with her worldview, Steve?” Steve takes his face in his hands and kisses Bucky on the mouth. He keeps it fairly chaste, but only because he’s thinking really hard about batting averages.

****

“Steve? Coulson said you were looking for me?” Clint comes over and stands in front of the broken-down sofa Steve’s sitting on.

“Oh, are you allowed to speak to me now?” Steve snaps, then looks away. “Sorry.”

Clint rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I guess I know what this is about then. Where’s Bucky?”

Steve jerks his chin toward the bar where Bucky’s talking to Sam and Tony. “I have no idea what to say to you right now.”

Clint sits next to him. “Well, ask away. I’ve got full liberty to answer any question I feel comfortable answering.”

“You have to get permission to talk about it?” Steve gapes at Clint.

“No, that’s just _basic human courtesy_.” Clint bites. “We do that, too, you know. Coulson’s a private dude. How do you think he’d feel if I just walked around town blabbing his kinky secrets to the world?”

Steve spends about an hour trying to figure out what’s happening with his friends, how he never knew, why they never told him. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it at all. They could have told him.

“Are you mad?” Clint says.

Steve nods, then shakes his head. “No. Not mad. Upset. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“I thought you knew.”  
  
‘How would I know? Seriously, you never told _me_ to … to … spank your ass!”  
  
Clint laughs. “Sorry, sorry. But no, I didn’t.”

“Why not? If it’s something you like.”

“Because you’re bossy as fuck, but you’re not a Dom.”

“I don’t -”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t understand the difference,” Clint says. “That’s kind of the point.”

“So is it new? Since Coulson?”  
  
“No.”

“But Coulson, he. He didn’t make you?”

“God, no.”

“You like what he does to you?” Steve says.

“ _With_ me. Yeah, man, of course.”

“You’re sure. He didn’t talk you into any of this or make you do things you don’t want to do?”

“No, Steve, you _know_ Coulson. He wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do. Not for real. I promise. I’m sorry I never told you, we all just assumed you knew.”

“Clint, regardless of what Tony tells you, I really don’t sit around and think about my friends’ sex lives. He does, but I don’t.”

“Yeah, you got enough trouble working out your own issues, don’tcha?”

Steve feels himself blush. “It’s not like that,” he says. The things he wants to do with Bucky, the things they’ve started to do, maybe, those aren’t the same as what Coulson does to Clint. Not even a little bit.

Bucky flops down next to him, one leg across Steve’s lap and an arm around his shoulders. “You ready to head out, Steve? Sam’ll give us a ride, but he’s bailing right now.” Bucky raises his voice and continues, “because he _sucks_ and needs to go to _beddy-bye_ before _one in the morning_!”

Sam flips him off and twirls his keys around his middle finger. “Keep talking, you’ll talk yourself right on out of a ride, Barnes.”

“You good?” Bucky looks between him and Clint.

“We’re good,” Clint says.

“Yeah. We’re good.”

Bucky walks him to his door while Sam waits at the curb and very studiously looks at the dry cleaner’s signs on the window across the street. Bucky kisses Steve, long and lingering and deep and does not invite himself inside, though he says he does want to.

Steve is finding it harder and harder to remember why he’s holding so firm to his resolve to keep it casual with Bucky.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve presses Bucky back into the corner of the sofa in Jane and Darcy’s living room, crawling on top of him. The girls and Thor are off on tour, so Bucky has the place to himself. Steve is taking advantage of the privacy, kissing Bucky roughly, deep and dirty. He’s taken Bucky’s shirt off and Bucky’s left hand is in Steve’s hair and his right is pressing on the small of Steve’s back.

Bucky’s quiet, but he’s breathing hard. Steve’s gasping, breathy moans with every shift of Bucky’s hips beneath him. Steve can’t keep his hands off the expanse of Bucky’s chest in front of him. He presses his fingers in, the skin giving until he feels the hard muscle underneath. Bucky’s nipples are hard unders his palms, and he thinks about biting them, licking them to soothe away the sting, then biting his way down Bucky’s belly, where it’s sitting on his thighs.

“Wanna go to the bedroom, babe?” Bucky asks, licking the words onto Steve’s neck.

Steve moans. He really, really does. “What’s wrong with right here?” he asks.

“Could use a little more room to manoeuvre,” Bucky laughs, lifting his hips - and Steve with them - as if to illustrate the point.

“Oh, really?” Steve asks, he kneels up and slithers backward to stand, quickly slides out of his jeans. “I think we’ve got enough room right here.” He raises an eyebrow and gestures at Bucky’s jeans. “You want to leave them on? Or let me take them off for you?”

Bucky bites his lip. “Off. Off,” he says, and Steve gets to work pulling Bucky’s jeans down. He has to really work at it. Steve scratches his fingers across Bucky’s chest and thighs, licks and kisses each new bit of skin he uncovers.

Bucky pulls Steve up by his shoulders and settles him back on his lap. Steve grinds down, pushing himself into Bucky’s belly.

“Gonna take your shirt off?”

Steve shakes his head. “I get cold,” he says, then works on distracting Bucky by sucking hickies into his collarbone.

Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s dick, strokes it once then presses it into his stomach. Steve moans.

“You like that?” Bucky asks him.

Steve nods, his hands clenching on Bucky’s shoulders.

“Yeah.” Bucky leans in, licks a stripe up Steve’s neck and then whispers in his ear. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Steve freezes. “I’m. I.”

“Hey, no,” Bucky says, his fingers around the back of Steve’s skull and his thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You think I don’t like that? How hot it gets me when you watch me like that?”

“It does?”

“ _God_ , yes,” Bucky says, and Steve dives back in for another kiss.  

“Don’t keep condoms in the living room, baby,” Bucky says. “Wanna let me up?”

Steve whimpers. Yes, he wants that. He does. “No, we don’t need them.”

He feels Bucky tense and huffs out a breath. “Not like _that_ , obviously. We’re just not going to do, you know, condom stuff.”

Bucky laughs, kisses him again. “Condom stuff.”

“That okay?”

“More than,” Bucky says. “I gotcha.”

Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and brings it between them, leaning back and letting Bucky get a good grip around both of them. Bucky takes the hint, starts stroking, and Steve pushes his fingers into Bucky’s stomach. He’s pushing and pinching and pressing into it while Bucky talks to him, filthy words spilling out of his mouth about how good Steve feels, how much he likes being under him.

“You close?” Bucky asks him.

Steve nods, gently biting Bucky’s pecs.

“Next time, baby,” Bucky gasps. “Next time you’re gonna bring me some more of those cookies, okay? You’re gonna bring them over and I’m gonna eat every. Last. One.”

Steve’s vision whites out right about then, and he comes so hard he thinks he might never recover.

“That’s it. That’s good. So damn sexy, baby,” Bucky says, stroking his hand down Steve’s T-shirt-covered back.  

When Steve can feel his toes again, he flops down next to Bucky and looks up at him. He’s just about ready to find his socks. “Does the door lock on its own?”

“What? No, it’s manual. You gotta take off?”

Steve nods.

Bucky bends down and throws a balled-up sock at him. “Get yourself together, then. I’ll walk you out.” Bucky smiles at him, and kisses him on the cheek.

****

It’s been three weeks, a fucking amazing birthday, and several up-close-and-personal moments with each others’ bathing suit areas since Steve resolved to break it off as soon as Bucky gave him reason to.

So far there’s been no reason. Bucky’s still attentive without being smothering, and he’s still interested in what Steve has to say, and he held eye contact with Steve the entire time he ate his fries, one by one, and then let Steve take him home and rub his belly and suck kisses all over and he just smiled, jerked Steve off, and pulled him close after and kissed him on the forehead until he sat up and got himself ready to go.

Sometimes they don’t even do anything sexy. Sometimes they just go see a band, and Bucky stands right there next to him, close and warm.

Sometimes they go to the diner and Bucky lets Steve sit in the corner of their booth, against the wall, and throw his legs up over Bucky’s lap and watch him.

_Watch the guy you’re seeing eat a turkey club and fries_ was most definitely not on The List. Neither was _bring the guy back to your place and rub his belly_ , but Steve most assuredly does just that.

So Steve’s resolve might be breaking. He might need to force the issue. Steve takes a deep breath and presses gently on Bucky’s new sexy-as-fuck nipple piercings. This is it.

“This time I want you to come on my face,” he says. Most guys go for that part. “And then lick it off me.” Most guys don’t go for that one.

Except Bucky is _so_ into it, and Steve is even more into it than he thought he’d be and when his plans backfire they backfire _so hard_.

For once, Bucky falls asleep and Steve lies awake in bed most of the night. Maybe he was just into it in the heat of the moment. Maybe it was the novelty. Maybe next time he won’t be as into it. Maybe there won’t be a next time.

Steve quietly makes some coffee and drinks way too much of it. He should wake Bucky up, get him going. He probably doesn’t want to stay here all night. But he knows Bucky doesn’t always sleep very well, and Bucky is sleeping the sleep of the righteous at the moment. 

Steve’s stomach starts to hurt, so he makes some more coffee and cooks some eggs. He’s not being as quiet as he should be, so Bucky wakes up. He shuffles over to the table all sleep-rumpled and morning soft in just his boxers. Steve would very much like to get used to seeing that every morning.

“Damn, baby. You keep feeding me like this and I’m going to end up the size of this table,” Bucky jokes.

Steve’s struck by the thought, scrapes the eggs from the sides of the skillet. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky laughs, a little incredulously.

Steve shrugs.”I just want you to be happy.” He sets the plate in front of Bucky before he’s yanked back into Bucky’s hug.

“You know I’m not just keeping you around for your cooking, right?” Bucky asks him.

Steve knows. He’s got the sex going for him, and the tat. Speaking of tats - “Shit, I’ve got an appointment. Sorry.”

****

Darcy slides up next to Steve. “So you and Bucky have been pretty hot and heavy for a while, now, huh.”

Steve turns and looks toward where Bucky and Clint are bouncing around in the pit. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“My count has it at almost six weeks now.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound all that enthusiastic. Is it bedroom problems?” Darcy teases, swatting Steve on the shoulder.

“No. _No_. Definitely not.”

“Good. Because that man? Is definitely aces in the sack.”

“Yeah, no, he’s amazing.”

“I bet he can go all night.”

“Uh. Probably?”

‘Wait. Wait.” Darcy leans closer, practically lying across the bar at this point. There’s a lot of cleavage going on. “Please, Steve do not tell me that man is a minuteman. I could not go on in this world if life were that unfair.”

“No!” Steve insists. “We just haven’t done. That part. Yet.”

“That part.” Darcy squints at him.

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “Everything else.”

“But not that.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Steve! You’re taking it slow! You little romantic, you! Who’d have thought you’d have it in you to wait for true love!”

“I’m not waiting for true love. That’s not even a thing.”

****

“Bucky? Will you fuck me? Please?” Steve asks, and he’s terrified Bucky will say no. Bucky seems to really like what they’ve done so far. Maybe he just wants to leave it at that. Maybe he’s hanging onto his deniability. Maybe he’s not into fucking scrawny guys.

“Fuck, Steve,” he says, and Steve’s heart freezes in his chest. “ _Yeah_ .”

Steve feels his breath leave him in a rush, and Bucky pulls him towards his bedroom. Steve makes quick work of his shoes and shirt, hoping Bucky doesn’t change his mind. But he’s just staring at him, his eyes roving along Steve’s thin chest. He looks contemplative. Maybe he’s reconsidering.

“Sorry, I can put my shirt back on,” he says, softly. He knows he’s not the ideal, not what most people want to look at in bed. It’s one thing to be able to feel his ribs. It’s another to be able to see them.

“You’re perfect,” Bucky says, and it should be dumb because that is absolutely untrue.

Dirty talk is always dumb and awful except for in the moment. But Bucky is ridiculously good at keeping Steve in the moment. No one’s ever been able to do that before. His brain’s always rushing ahead of him, at least partially focused on the angle of the light, or how to shade on darker skin, or the full back piece he’s working on, or whether he has enough dish soap in the kitchen.

Not with Bucky. With Bucky he’s focused on the way he can press against him, the way Bucky feels leaning into him, the softness that surrounds him when he works his hands between Bucky’s waistband and his skin.

Steve works on unbuttoning Bucky’s pants, tugging them to get the button loose.

“So hot, god,” he says.

He’s hurrying, he knows he is, but he needs this to happen, he _needs_ it, and he doesn’t want to give Bucky any reason to change his mind.

****

Steve leaves Bucky’s place and softly closes the door behind him. He’s done something wrong, but he’s not exactly sure what. He climbs up a few sets of stairs and sits on the landing before heading outside. He needs to think but he doesn’t want to set up camp outside in case Bucky decides to leave or Darcy and Jane come home.

He replays the night in his head. They’d had a good night. Bucky’d kept his arm around Steve most of the night, didn’t push him away or cross his arms or turn away when Steve touched him.

And the sex was good, really good. Better than he thought it would be, even. And he’s spent a really, really long time thinking about how it might be. A really, very, incredibly long time. He had a basic idea, obviously, but theoretical knowledge could not compare with practical experience.

And when it was over, Bucky rolled over, gotten comfortable, and Steve did what he always did. What he was supposed to do. They were at Bucky’s house, so it was up to Steve to clean himself up and get out of the way. Sooner was always better than later. He didn’t want to fall asleep, and he would, if he got too comfortable. And being next to Bucky was always comfortable.

But apparently that was wrong somehow? He shakes his head. He’s not going to figure it out sitting here on the worn out carpet of the third story landing.

****

Steve always falls asleep too quickly, too easily. He knows that. If he lets himself get comfortable enough, he’ll be asleep before he’s even made the decision to really do so. But apparently Bucky doesn’t mind so much if he accidentally falls asleep in his bed. Says he prefers it, actually, which Steve thinks is a lie. A sweet lie, but a lie all the same.

After they made up, which Steve’s still not entirely sure how they managed to pull off, Bucky hasn’t pushed him to sleep over. Steve’s trying to figure out the appropriate length of time to stick around before leaving. Bucky usually stays about half an hour or so, but Steve’s usually halfway asleep when Bucky chuckles and pulls his arm out from underneath Steve’s neck, kisses him on the forehead and starts to get ready to go.

He’s thought about reaching out, grabbing his wrist and stopping him, telling Bucky it’s okay for him to stay, too. He just hasn’t, yet.

He doesn’t want to take advantage or get too comfortable. It’s really easy to sleep with Bucky, though. He’s warm and soft and it’s nice to have someone else in bed with him.

Clint’s probably on to something with his whole not-liking-to-sleep-alone thing.

****

The convention is exhausting and amazing and exhausting and fun and Antoine took him to dinner where Steve definitely drank way too much and allowed him to talk him into a consult job with the magazine and possibly think about some kind of reality show. Which he will never do, but he has a hard time saying flat-out no to Antoine.

He can feel the con-crud creeping up on him by the time the plane lands, and when the cab drops him off at home he just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for about four days. Bucky calls him, but Steve can’t stop yawning long enough to tell him much more than he had a bumpy but fine flight and that he’ll call him when he returns to consciousness.

Bucky laughs and tells him to get some sleep.

Clint stops by his apartment late the next evening like he always does the day after he comes home from a con to help him organize his sketches, ideas, business cards, and various detritus he’s picked up over the weekend. Clint’s some kind of organizational wizard, it’s weird.

“These Bucky’s shoes?” Clint asks, nudging the boots with the toe of his Chucks.

“Yeah, he must have left them here last time he was over.”

Clint nods. “Wait. How did he leave his shoes? I mean, I’ve forgotten I was wearing undies before. And socks. Once a hat. But shoes?”

“He came over last Tuesday after his run with Sam. He had his gym bag with him.”

“Sure.” Clint nods, then frowns like it doesn’t make any sense. “Hey, Coulson wants me home by eleven, so I gotta get out of here pretty soon.”

“Is that a nice way of saying you don’t want to be around me and my plague germs?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Clint confirms. “But it’s also true.”

Steve hits the sack early with the vaporizer on high and his chest coated in way too much Vicks.

A couple hours later, his phone vibrates off the nightstand and knocks his glasses to the floor. By the time he finds them and the phone, he’s got two missed calls from Bruce.

Steve calls him back. “Bruce? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Hey, sorry to bother you. But can you come make sure Bucky gets home okay? He’s pretty wasted. He and Tony have been having a pity-party drinking contest and I’m not sure who lost. If you can’t make it, I can try Sam?”

“No, I’ll come get him. Thanks.”

****

Steve had planned on being a mature, rational adult about it when Bucky broke it off with him. He really had. But his plan had been for casual indifference, or denial and avoidance, or Bucky starting a conversation with, “So, Steve, this has been really fun, but.”

He hadn’t planned for Bucky to drunkenly tell him he loved him and then immediately regret it enough to deny it and throw up.

Steve helps him home, or rather, Bucky lets Steve help him home. He settles him down on the sofa with a bucket and a couple of water bottles and some Tylenol. He takes his shoes off and puts them under the table out of the way. He’ll have to remember to bring Bucky’s boots to the shop, since they’re still sitting in the corner of his living room. There’s probably some more of stuff there, too, although Steve has been careful not to leave anything of his at Bucky’s. He spends a minute looking at Bucky’s hands. Bucky’s got -  _Bucky had_ \- great hands.

Steve pushes Bucky’s hair off his forehead and kisses his cheek. That’s still allowed. Friends can do that. Natasha does it to Clint all the time, even though Clint’s not hers.

And then he leaves.

****

Bucky brings him soup. 

Steve does not want soup. Steve mostly wants to go to sleep and wake up two days ago when he thought maybe Bucky cared about him enough not to lie to him about important stuff like feelings. Or two months from now when it doesn’t hurt when Bucky does something friendly and nice for him.

He doesn’t let himself listen to whatever excuse Bucky’s trying to make. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

Steve forces himself to his feet, his head heavy and his heart pounding. “Don’t. Lying when you’re drunk is one thing. Doing it on purpose is just.” Steve breathes. It’s hard. His lungs are tight and he’s blaming the cold one hundred percent. “You’re not an asshole, Bucky. Don’t start now.”

“I'm not, Steve. I mean it.”

Steve’s trying to hold on to his resolve. He remembers how easy it was to fall against Bucky after their first fight, when Bucky didn’t understand why he left after sex. It would be easy to fall against him again, let him put him to bed and bring him some Gatorade and some more soup. Let him rub circles onto his temples and make his head stop hurting. Let him say he loves him like he means it, like it means anything to just say that to someone.

“Look, thanks for the soup. You should go.”

“Come on, Steve.” Bucky whines, reaches out to Steve.

“What, you wanna take it with you?” Steve glares at him, and Bucky jerks his hand back to himself, covers his stomach. He looks like he wants to throw up again.

Good.

But Bucky still reaches out for him, even after that, even after Steve said something horrible, something designed to hurt Bucky as much as what he said had hurt Steve. He’s still reaching out to him, and Steve flinches. He overbalances and hits the doorframe with his back. It hurts. His whole body hurts.

“Just go,” he says.

Bucky goes.

Steve shuffles back to bed.

In the morning, he dumps the soup into the trash.

****

“Steve, give him a chance,” Clint says, looking backward over his shoulder to where Bucky is clearly miserable. Tony and Bruce are with him. Steve wonders if the division of friendships is static or if they’ll mix it up until things normalize again. “You guys are so good together.”

“We’re not together,” Steve says, keeping Coulson between himself and Bucky. It’s easier to ignore him when he can’t see him.

“You had an argument.”

“Yes, we did. And then we broke up. Therefore, we are no longer together.”

“He didn’t even do anything all that bad,” Clint argues.

“So I did. It was coming. It’s been coming for a long time. We had a good run. It was fun. And now it’s over.”

“You wanted to sabotage this to prove yourself right. You just latched on to the very first opportunity he gave you to shut him out,” Clint says, emphatically. “He left his shoes at your place! His shoes! You don’t leave shoes behind if you’re not planning on sticking around.”

“Did you recently return to college to get your therapist license?”

“Shut up, Steve. You know I’m right because you’re using all formal speech and shit. That’s what you do when you get mad. You speechify.”

“That’s not really relevant to Bucky and I breaking up, since I didn’t prepare a speech for that.”

“Coulson does it too. It’s, it’s. Infuriating!”

“Leave me out of this,” Coulson says.

“Yes, Clint, leave him out of this. Leave me out of this. Leave everyone out of this. In fact, there is no this. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let this go, get back to normal. Bucky will still be your friend.”

“See! You just did it again. Don’t be a dick, Steve. He was drunk because he missed you and he -”

“Coulson, could you tell Clint to stay out of it?”

“I already have,” Coulson says.

“Aren’t you supposed to do what he says, then?” Steve says to Clint. He wants to just leave but Bucky’s camped out with Tony and Bruce between him and the door.

“Do not turn this around on me, Steve. This is about you and your insistence on being right all the time. Even if you’re wrong.”

“Yeah. Seems like that’s what I do, doesn’t it?” Steve stands up.

“Steve, just.” Clint sighs. ‘What are you trying to prove?”

Steve hesitates before he turns and walks out, avoiding Tony and Bruce arguing over Bucky laying his head on the table. He’s still tired. He doesn’t want to get sick again.

****

Clint and Natasha are already asleep, Clint’s head on Natasha’s thighs. Natasha refused to take sides, which Steve appreciates, though he can feel her judging him. Everyone at the slumber party is judging him tonight, with varying degrees of subtlety.

Clint would only tell Steve he’s in the wrong, but that that’s all he’s allowed to say.

Peggy is on his side, but Steve can tell it’s out of loyalty rather than actually agreeing with him. She’s watching the end of some movie where everyone works out their misunderstandings because theirs are cute and adorable and don’t involve vomiting after declarations of feelings or saying mean things about someone’s biggest point of insecurity.

Steve chooses to believe it’s because that’s the plot to every rom-com ever made, rather than a pointed commentary on his appalling lack of relationship skills.

Pepper sits down next to him at the breakfast bar between the dining room and the kitchen and shares her double chocolate chunk ice cream.

“Bucky’s pretty miserable, you know,” Pepper says.

Steve nods.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve shrugs.

“It isn’t the drinking, is it?”

Steve shakes his head. “Bucky doesn’t - _didn’t_ \- actually drink excessively. He didn’t usually have more than one or two when we went out. Besides, he’s always been free to go and do whatever, whenever.”

“And it’s not that he went out without you?” It wasn’t much of a question.

Steve shakes his head again.

“Then …?”

Steve sighs. “He said he loved me. But he didn’t mean it.”

Pepper starts to say something but Steve cuts her off.

“I don’t like to be lied to. I never asked him to love me. I didn’t think I’d have to ask him to be honest with me.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you don’t know Bucky is in love with you? Deeply, desperately in love with you?”

Steve makes a noise. “He said he didn’t mean it.”

“Then that was the lie, Steve.”

“Well, now it isn’t.”

“Your motivations are of little concern to people if you refuse to let them know you, Steve. If you let him get away from you over this, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Probably,” Steve says. Pepper’s probably more right than he’d like to admit.

“Sounds to me like he has more of a right to be mad at you than you of him.”

Steve swallows. “I know. Will you finish his arm? If he doesn’t want me to do it anymore?”

“Oh, Steve.” Pepper pats the back of his hand.

He nods again. “I know.”

****

Bucky arrives early. It’s just as well, because Steve cleared everything else from his schedule. “Pepper says I’m being unfair,” he says without looking up.

“Pepper’s a smart woman,” Bucky says. He sounds tired. Steve doesn’t look up to check.

“She doesn’t do it often anymore, but,” Steve babbles, giving Bucky an out. Pepper finally did say she’d finish the tat, although Steve really, really doesn’t want to let her. She’s great, but her style is nothing like Steve’s. He’d probably have to adjust the design, and this far along in the process, it’d be difficult.  

If roles were reversed, though, he probably wouldn’t want Bucky pointing sharp objects at him. He might end up with _Steve Is A Dick_ permanently etched into his forehead.  

“Steve, it’s your work. I want you to finish it. You’re the one who called it quits. Not me.”

"Right,” Steve says. It’s good they agree. There’s no reason to fight, and if they agree on this, then the majority of the awkwardness is out of the way now. “So it’s all my fault. That’s what I’m saying.” All it’ll take is another few weeks and they’ll all be back to normal.

“It’s not all your fault,” Bucky says.

That brings Steve up short. He accidentally splashes water onto his shirt and spends a few minutes blotting at it with paper towels.

“I should have. Hell, I should have done a lot of things. I should have told you well before then how I felt.”

Steve finishes up at the sink, buying time since apparently Bucky wants to go ahead with his appointment. “Too late now, though,” he sighs.

“What?” Bucky says, and Steve’s not sure how he heard him all the way across the room. “No it isn’t.”

Steve comes over to the stool and sits. “Yeah it is. It’s done and over.” If he keeps saying it, Bucky will listen. And if Bucky believes it, Steve can keep believing it.

“You can’t just keep assuming you know what everyone is thinking,” Bucky says, which is utter bullshit. He knows. He was there. Bucky was the one who who was wasted. Steve will bet good money he remembers that night far better than Bucky does.  

“I know what you said.”

“Yeah, and you just decided you know it all, didn’t you?”

This is much more familiar. He’s had this argument before. He’s had this argument already twice _this week_.

Except Bucky keeps talking. He sits on the dental chair and pulls Steve over to him. “So I said ‘I love you’ for the first time while I was shitfaced.” Bucky grimaces. “I’m not the first guy to pull that asshole move.” He shrugs. “And then I puked on your shoes.”

‘You missed my shoes,” Steve points out.

“That’s not the fucking point, Steve!” Bucky shouts.

“Then what is?” Steve searches Bucky’s face for a hint here. He’d come in not even expecting Bucky to show up. Then Bucky said he’d wanted the tat, and Steve was cool with them getting back to normal. And now Bucky’s trying to talk to him, acting like there’s something here worth fighting about. “What is the _point_ of all of this?”

“The _point_ is that this doesn’t have to be over because of a drunken misunderstanding. Not if we don’t want it to be.” Bucky reaches out to tip his chin up, and Steve jerks his head out of his reach like he always does. “You don’t want it to be, right?”

Steve shakes his head slowly, unsure what the right answer here is. No, he doesn’t  _want_ it to be over. He’s just not entirely sure why it  _isn’t_ .

“Then how about I apologize to you for being a complete douche nozzle, and you apologize to me for avoiding me for the last week. We both forgive each other and call it even.”

“Just like that?” Steve asks suspiciously. He’s waiting for Bucky to ask for free ink or for him to set him up with someone or something. He’s not going to just let it go like that.

“Well, apology brownies wouldn’t be overkill.”

Steve nods. Sounds fair. More than fair. “Yeah, I can -”

“Steve, Steve, I was kidding.”

“Okay, so what do you  _want_ then, Bucky?”

Bucky sighs. “Just don’t shut me out like that. I know that was a shitty thing to do, and god. I hope I don’t do anything that stupid again, but I’m gonna,” he says. “That’s kind of how this shit works. Steve, that’s relationships. That’s love.”

Steve hugs Bucky, probably a little too tightly. “Sorry.”

“You know you don’t have anything to be sorry for, punk.” Steve’s pretty sure Bucky’s laughing at him a little bit, but he’s having a hard time caring.

“Sorry.”

Bucky sits back in the chair, pulling Steve to him and rubbing his hand down Steve’s back. “You know, if we bought a dental chair for your apartment, we could probably never have a fight again.”

Steve snorts against his chest and curls in close. Closer. He like that he fits against Bucky, that Bucky lets him. Steve slides his fingers around the buttons on Bucky’s shirt where they’re gapped open just a little bit. It’s comforting, the feel of Bucky’s skin under his fingertips. He presses his fingers in a slight rhythm, like a kitten.

Bucky kisses him on the forehead.

Steve sighs.

****

Steve sees strawberries at the farmer’s market on his way back from mass and he can’t help himself. They’re big and ripe and Bucky likes strawberries. Bucky likes anything that isn’t produced in army quantity or covered in coconut. Steve found that out when he mentioned making German chocolate cookies and Bucky spent forty-three minutes extolling the evils of coconut.

“It’s like eating sawdust. Like suntan-lotion-flavored sawdust.”

Steve laughed, putting the bag of coconut back onto the shelf. “Okay, so no German chocolate cookies. Got it.”

Bucky, who apparently loves him and forgives him and wants to actually be with him, loves strawberries, though. Bucky loves strawberries and loves eating them and loves Steve and loves sex with Steve.

Even though sometimes all Steve wants to do is watch him eat an entire pizza. Or feed him cookies. Or maybe strawberries.

“So I’m thinking,” Steve says, and then bites a little harder than necessary on Bucky’s belly when he feels him take a breath to make the obvious comment. “That you’ve got two options,” he continues, nosing around, dipping his tongue into Bucky’s belly button for a moment before sucking right above it.

“Yeah?” Bucky pants, his fingers tightening just slightly in Steve’s hair.

“You can feed yourself the strawberries, and I’ll stay right here, on my knees while you do it.”

“Or?” Bucky says, already reaching over to grab one of the strawberries out of the bowl and biting it in half.

“Or,” Steve kneels up, sucks kisses up Bucky’s stomach and chest and across to his right shoulder. “Or you slick yourself up, and let me feed them to you while you fuck me.”

Bucky groans. “See, baby, I knew you had a talent for dirty talk.”

****

Bucky passes him on the way to the bar and pushes him playfully out of the way. Steve retaliates by tackling Bucky. Bucky, naturally, doesn’t even sway on his feet.

“Nice try,” Bucky laughs.

Steve pinches his love handles and crowds into him from behind.

“I love you, you kinky little shit,” Bucky laughs. “Take me home.”

Steve pulls himself up straight. That wasn’t what he’d planned on hearing. Well, the take me home, sure, but not the other part.  

Steve likes what they do, and he knows it’s not, well, normal. But it’s not kinky. He doesn’t want to do the types of things Clint and Coulson do. Or the types of things Tony talks about having done.

Tony very much enjoys sending Steve porn in his work email. Steve has to open the files, because clients will send pictures of things they want tattooed or inspiration or applications for conventions. And about half the time, they’re from Tony, and those pictures are just ridiculous or filthy or terrible. So Steve knows from kink. And he and Bucky have never done anything like … that.

“We’re not kinky,” he says softly on their way home.

“Steve.” Bucky takes both of his hands in his and then he inhales deeply. “Steve. You literally sat on my dick and fed me strawberries until I couldn’t move last night. We are in fact the very definition on kinky.”

“But no,” Steve insists. Usually the people in the kinky videos Tony sends him seem so … unfulfilled. Plastic. Not … happy. Bucky was anything but unhappy last night. He said he was happy. “You liked that. Didn’t you like that?”

“Of course I liked it. Where’d you get the idea what kink was about not liking it?”

It’s on the tip of Steve’s tongue to tell him about Tony’s emails, but Bucky’s got that tone of voice he gets when some asshole does something shitty in the pit, so Steve just shrugs and says, “You know. It just doesn’t look like those people are having fun.”

“Which people?”

“Kinky people.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky tugs their joined hands and pulls Steve a little closer to him. “Clint and Coulson look pretty happy.”

Steve considers. Clint is far happier now than he ever was before he started dating Coulson. More relaxed. More focused. And Steve remembers the first time he ever took a needle to Clint, how when he relaxed, he looked so serene, even though Steve knew ribs were pretty painful.

“You looked like you were having fun when you came all over my big-ass belly last night,’ Bucky continues, his voice dropped low.

“That’s different, I already said I like the strawberry thing,” Steve argues automatically. Oh. Oh. “Next time, peaches. They’re just at the end of the season so they’ll be juicier.”

“Steve, god. Wait til we get home, damn.”

Steve grins at him. “Because you like that.”

“Hell yes, I like that.”

Steve had thought he was maybe just going along with it because Steve liked it. He hadn’t realized Bucky got anything out the actual eating part of it.

Steve likes food. Food tastes good. But mostly it’s an inconvenience that he deals with because he has to. He’s enjoyed a meal before, but it’s never turned him on. Not like watching Bucky eat does.

He thought maybe Bucky was just indulging him. Playing it up. Acting like the food was getting him hot because acting like that got Steve hot. Not because doing any of it actually got him hot.

“And that’s kinky,” he says slowly. He’s still trying to work this out in his head.

Bucky kisses him and Steve slides his hand along Bucky’s waistband. “I like it and you like it and that’s what matters.”

****

Steve’s almost asleep when Bucky tightens his hand in his hair and says, “I wanna take you on a real date.”

“We go on dates all the time, though,” Steve mumbles. He’s thinking about all the times they go to the farmer’s markets and try new fruits and vegetables. Or when Bucky tells him about the time he tried this thing or that thing when he was in country. It sometimes disturbs Steve how hot it is when Bucky reminds him he was a badass soldier.

Or when they hang out at the club and Steve comes up behind Bucky and tucks his hands into Bucky’s front pockets and leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

When Bucky actually built a blanket fort with him and they flew paper airplanes. Bucky is a master paper airplane pilot. He told him about when his sister was six and she went through this origami phase and Bucky learned how to make all sorts of things. He can still do a frog and a crane and a killer paper airplane.

The night still ended in blowjobs, but somehow it wasn’t at all the same.

When they talked all the way through the movie they downloaded and had to start it over three times before they actually got to watch it.

When Bucky sat with him and watched the Super Bowl on Tony’s big-ass TV at the club. There was plenty of room for everyone, but Bucky had pulled Steve into his lap anyway and kept one arm around him for most of the night. He explained the plays and positions and what he did when he played in high school and didn’t assume Steve was stupid because this was something all boys are born just knowing and Steve didn’t.

He let Steve argue with him that baseball was infinitely better than football in every possible way.

‘You’re wrong, but you’re cute, so I’ll allow it.”

Those were all dates. Those were the best dates Steve’s ever had. If Bucky doesn’t think those are dates, Steve’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

“Besides,” he says. “You’ve already got me in bed. I think that’s backward.”

Bucky says something else, but Steve doesn’t have it in him to stay awake and figure out what it is.

****

Steve’s trying to find the right shade of orange for a tattoo on Bucky’s hip, maybe spreading up his ribs. He wants that same orange the sunset turns his street in the late Spring and Fall, and he’s studying how to make that glow happen in the tattoo. He’s not sure yet what the design is going to be, if Bucky even wants a tattoo on his hip. Bucky’s told him though that he’s willing to be covered in ink head to toe if Steve’s got the time. It’s more important right now that he gets the color right. The picture will come to him later.

“You got a need for anything fresh? Mint maybe?” Bucky calls to him from the front window.

“You want me to make you some mint cookies?” Steve doesn’t know any off the top of his head, but there are tons of mint recipes out there.

“No.” Bucky says. “I mean, sure, if you want to, but no.”

Steve sets the yellow pencil down and picks up a peach. “Good. I don’t know if I have any mint cookie recipes. I made something once for my ma, tasted like I’d squeezed a roll of toothpaste into them.”

Bucky laughs slightly and then says, like he’s admitting something, “I got some stuff growing. On the roof. Mint’s easy, but so are most herbs. Did you want anything in particular?"

"You started gardening?" Steve sets the pencils down, hops off the stool and walks toward Bucky. This seems like a really important conversation.

The books Sam recommended almost universally recommend gardening as a hobby for coping with PTSD. Gardening and pets, but Steve’s allergic to dogs and cats and ferrets and guinea pigs and, well, anything with fur. Makes the therapy animals mostly out of the question.

"It's not a garden. It's just some stuff up on the roof."

"Can I see?"

“I guess.” Bucky shrugs.

That’s all the permission Steve needs before he’s pulling his keys out of the desk drawer from where they’re hanging on an Army Strong lanyard that Bucky brought home from the VA a few months ago. He flips the switch on the sign and makes sure everything’s put away enough. It’s not clean enough to close the shop for the night, but it’ll work for the next hour or so.

“What, now?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, now. I wanna see while we’ve still got some sun. The shop won’t fall apart without us for an hour.” There’s been a kind of distance between them recently. Steve knows he’s mostly to blame. He’s been busy with the shop, with the extra work and publicity. Through the holidays and into Spring, he’s probably been neglectful.

“Sure. Okay.” Bucky hunches in on himself a little though, and takes the walk toward the apartment like he’s marching to his doom. Or, well, Steve imagines Bucky would march to his doom a little more stoically than this. Probably sexier, too.

When he opens the janitor’s closet on the fifth floor and pulls the access ladder down, Steve climbs up first and Bucky follows. “Don’t get your hopes up or anything.”

There are a couple of piles of … stuff along the far wall, but otherwise, it’s tray after pot after table full of flowers and plants and bushes and green things and growth. This is not a little something growing on the roof.

“Buck, this is. Wow, this is really nice.”

“Nah, it’s nothing. It’s not a big deal.”

“No, really, this is,” Steve walks a couple of steps in a large circle, trying to take everything in. It’s gorgeous and well-thought-out and there’s a distinct plan at work. He’s designed everything to flow and ease into the next section. It clearly means a lot to Bucky.

“You really like it up here, don’t you? Is this where you go when you get up at night?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, sometimes. I guess it’s all right up here.” He smiles crookedly at Steve.

“It’s really great, Bucky,” Steve says. He slides his arms around Bucky from behind, kisses along his neck. Bucky bends his knees and leans back, his head on Steve’s shoulder in a way he wishes was more comfortable for Bucky to do for more than a second or two.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to the shop before you’ve got an angry line around the block.”

****

“Sorry I’ve been so busy, Bucky,” Steve reaches over the back of the sofa and hands him a plate full of still-warm chocolate chip cookies.

“Classics.”

“Well, I figured apology cookies should be classics. Although I remember you told me apologies should come in the form of brownies, once.”

“Yeah. You know, come to think of it. I don’t believe I ever got apology brownies.” Bucky leans his head over the back of the sofa to look at Steve upside-down.

“I’m not apologizing for anything specific. This is more of just a general, hey I’ve been kind of neglectful of my super sexy boyfriend and I’d like to maybe try to make up for that.”

“So. No brownies?” Bucky pouts.

“I’m saving them for the next time I do something actually awful.” Steve comes around the sofa.

“Something awful like, oh, I don’t know.” Bucky pretends to think. “Taking on a roving gang of drunken skinheads by yourself?”

“It was fine,” he protests, kneeling on the sofa to straddle Bucky’s thighs. Distraction is the best offense.

“It was fine,” Bucky repeats.

“It was,” Steve insists, breaking off a piece of cookie to slip into Bucky’s mouth. “Clint was there.”

Bucky chews. “Three. Drunk. Skinheads.”

“ _Three_ does not equal  _gang_ . We handled it.” Steve feeds him another cookie.

“Steve.”

“So we can discuss how Clint and I kicked ass, which I have been doing since long before I ever met you and everything turned out absolutely fine,” Steve barrels on. “Or you can pay attention to the fact that I am on your lap. Separated from your dick by just a couple of very thin layers of fabric. With a plate full of delicious, _warm, gooey_ chocolate chip cookies that I would very much like to feed to you before you fuck me.”

Bucky grabs him by the hips and pulls him down to grind up into him a little bit. “I don’t know. I might need to make a pros and cons list.”

“I’m getting up. I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now,” Steve laughs. Bucky’s still got a pretty good hold on his hips, though.

“Give me another cookie.”

****

“You could _not_ eat forty-eight Pop-Tarts,” Steve says skeptically, pressing himself against the shelf as the family with eight preschool-aged children comes flying by again. Loudly. Bucky looks on dopily and wiggles his fingers in a wave at the baby, who is drooling all over his or her harried-looking mother’s shoulder.

Steve rolls his eyes. He usually doesn’t come with Coulson when he makes his quarterly trip to the big box grocery store, but they figured it was a good idea to give road tripping a test run in case Bucky wasn’t as cool with it as he insisted he would be.

Bucky was fine, actually, the whole trip over. It’s Steve who’s having a bit of a panic. There is just so much _stuff_. And so many _people_. And so many _children_. Who in the hell wants to deal with all these children? Children everywhere. Also, who in the hell wants forty-eight Pop-Tarts at one time?

Besides his boyfriend, who apparently thinks both of them are perfectly acceptable things to have around.

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes. “Yes.”

“I could _definitely_ eat forty-eight Pop-Tarts.” Bucky picks up the economy pack. “How long do I have? Like an hour? Do I get milk? Do they have a box of strawberry? Those are better than the brown sugar ones.”

Steve takes the box out of his hands and puts it back. “Pop-Tarts are disgusting. You’d be better off eating a five-pound bag of sugar.” Bucky opens his mouth, but Steve continues, “Which you also could not do. Don’t even think about it. There’s unhealthy, and then there’s plain stupid.”

“I can eat forty-eight cookies,” Bucky argues.

Steve pauses to consider. “I’ve seen you do two dozen.”

“You usually lose count about then and end up with your hand on your - “

“Bucky!” Steve covers Bucky’s mouth with his hand. There are children. Lurking. “I take your point, alright?”

“Then I could so eat forty-eight Pop-Tarts.” Bucky picks the box back up.

“You could not! Those aren’t even remotely the same thing!”

Clint glides by, riding on the back of the shopping cart. “Toss it in, Buckster! Get you some!”

Coulson raises his eyebrow at the register but allows the economy pack of Pop-Tarts to ring up without comment.

Sometimes Steve wonders what Coulson does with all the things he doesn’t allow himself to say. Does he occasionally drive out to the woods and just shout for an hour or so?

****

Bucky cannot eat forty-eight Pop-Tarts. He gives it a valiant effort, though. One that Steve thoroughly appreciates.

****

Summer comes on with a death grip. It’s hotter than hell. They don’t have air conditioning, because they usually don’t need it. Bucky asked Steve about bringing up a window unit, but they haven’t gotten around to it, and every time it comes up the weather breaks.

Neither the window unit nor the thick, muggy air are the best for Steve’s breathing, and they bicker back and forth about which is worse. Tony offers them his cabin, but they can’t just fuck off to the lake house any time they feel like it.

There’s a box fan in the window, rattling and loud and just moving hot air around, but it’s better than nothing.

They only really have to struggle through a couple more weeks before it’ll be fall, and a whole new set of weather- and health-related problems will come up. But it won’t be this misery anymore.

The weather reports have been calling for thunderstorms all week, but so far it’s just gotten hotter and thicker and soupier and everyone’s in a bad mood. Tony even snapped at Bruce the other day, and Bruce walked out on him. Tony slammed the door to the stock room and didn’t come out until Steve was ready to close for the night.

“You hungry?” Steve says listlessly from the sofa.

“It’s too hot to eat,” Bucky whines.

Steve sighs. “I’m not baking, not even cooking anything. We could go to the diner?”

“It’s too hot to go to the diner. I don’t even want to move.”

Steve offers, “I could go. Get it and bring something back for you?”

“Go if you want. I don’t want anything.”

“Fine,” Steve huffs.

“Don’t know how you can even think of stuffing me full of anything right now.”

“I wasn’t. I was just asking about dinner, jesus.”

“Were you? Is it ever just dinner with you?”

“What. The fuck.” Steve stares at Bucky incredulously.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Fine. I’m going. The diner is at least cooler than here.”

“Give me a minute, I’ll come too.” Bucky rolls to the side like he’s going to stand up.

“Don’t bother.”

****

“Woah, hey, Buck, it’s just me.” Steve dodges the fist that just brushes by his shoulder. He backs up off the bed and turns on the light, standing out of reach next to the nightstand.

“Fuck, what?” Bucky’s panting, sweaty and flushed, fully aware but probably not actually awake.

“Nightmares? You were sweating. I got you some water. I must have startled you when I came back to bed. But you’re fine.”

Bucky sits back against the wall, clutching his head in his hands.

“Hey, you’re fine. Can you go back to sleep?”

“Did I hit you?”

“I’m fine. You’re fine. It was just a nightmare.” Steve slowly comes closer and sits on the bed.

“Steve. Did I hit you?”

Steve shrugs and cups his shoulder. “You were asleep.”

“Shit. _Shit_.” Bucky throws the blankets off the bed, jerking his boxers on and reaching for his jeans.

“Don’t. Bucky, I’m _fine_. You’re okay. I’m okay. You grazed my shoulder. You got me worse when you pushed me into the wall to kiss me this morning. And you meant to do that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, jamming his feet into his shoes and slamming the door behind himself. “I meant to do that.”

****

“Dammit, Arturo, I forgot the bags again,” Steve says, tossing a pack of condoms on the counter. “Oh. Sorry. You’re not Arturo,” he says to this black-haired girl, someone he’s never seen before. She’s popping her gum and flipping through a magazine. Her name tag says Jeanie.

“Nope. Fifteen-eighty.”

Steve pulls out a twenty and hands it over, stacking the rest of the groceries in a paper bag. “He’s okay, though, right? Arturo?”

The girl shrugs.

“Is he still on the schedule here?” Steve asks impatiently.

“What, is he your boyfriend?” she mouths off. Then her eyes light up and she glances at the condoms on top of the groceries and then looks him over, head to toe and back again. “ _Is_ he your boyfriend?”

****

Steve says hello to Josephina as she barrels up the stairs, and then comes around the corner. Bucky’s holding a baby, cooing down at her, and he looks so smitten, so perfectly happy that it takes Steve’s breath away.

"One of us has a lot of explaining to do," Steve whispers, because he doesn’t know much about babies, but he knows you never, _ever_ wake them up.

Bucky grins at him and a tiny little hand reaches up to try to grab Bucky’s lip ring. “It’s okay, she’s not asleep,” Bucky says.

“Then why isn’t she crying?”

“Because nothing’s wrong with her right now, is there, sweetheart? No there isn’t.”

Steve stays back. “Babies are scary.” He remembers Ma telling him he had to be careful around babies, because they weren’t able to control their heads and they could get sick even easier than he could. Steve had nightmares all through third grade about babies sneezing and their heads spontaneously falling off their bodies.  

Bucky laughs at him. “Nothing’s scary about babies.” He’s exaggerating all of his words, the way people always do around puppies and babies and other breakable, cute things.

“Bucky, literally everything about babies is scary or loud or disgusting.”

“Gracias, Steve,” Josephina says from behind them.

Steve’s embarrassed, sure, but mostly he’s grateful that there’s a mother in the room now, the baby’s still in one piece, and he can try to get Bucky out of there before he realizes how in love with Fabiana he is.

“How do you know so much about babies?”

Bucky pauses. “I guess we’ve never really talked about it, have we?”

Steve shakes his head. He never wanted kids, still doesn’t. He doesn’t like them or want them around. They’re loud and smelly and needy and they take so much time and energy.

He doesn’t want to risk having a kid of his own, passing on his genes. The asthma and the bad bones and the bad teeth and the bad ears and the bad lungs and any one of a hundred other health problems he had as a kid were hard enough to deal with first hand. He remembers Ma praying by his bedside some nights, her rosary in one hand and Steve’s sweaty, pale wrist in her other.

“So yeah, I like kids okay, I guess. I love babies that I can give back. I don’t really want any of our - my own, you know?”

That’s a lie if Steve ever heard one. He’s seen how Bucky is with Fabi. How Bucky is with kids in stores, on the street, on the bus. How Bucky always watches out for the kids at their first shows, nervous on the edges of the pit and trying not to show it. Steve’s just not sure if Bucky’s lying just to Steve or to himself as well, but he’s definitely lying.

****

With a very few exceptions, by the beginning of September Steve’s pretty sure it’s been actual decades since he’s done anything but pass out next to Bucky in bed or kiss him absently on the cheek in when he passes him in the shop.

Every time the wedding comes up, Bucky takes off, bowing out of the conversation. Steve’s pretty sure it’s because he’s never given any thought to marrying Steve and he doesn’t want to have to dance around the topic all night when it inevitably comes up.

Steve stirs his hashbrowns up with his fork, making sure the gets the soft inside bits all mixed up with the crunchy outside bits. "I get making it official I guess, although they have all the legal stuff covered. What's another piece of paper?" he says.

"Paperwork is fine, what I don't get is the fuss," Clint agrees. "All that money and shit. For what? A party?"

"Right," Steve says, popping a bite of hash brown into his mouth. "Because we don't have enough of those already."

Clint and Natasha say something about the dress, as if all this angst is worth a new dress. Steve rolls his eyes. "Do you have any idea how many red dresses she's made?"

Bucky’s been quiet this whole time, like he always is when the wedding comes up. “Clint,” he says in a tone of voice Steve’s never heard from him. It’s … authoritative. Masterful. It makes Steve simultaneously want to do everything he says and rail against it. That’s new.

“Do you have a collar?"

Clint startles. "What? Yeah, of course."

Natasha leans back as well, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s poised to defend Clint. She usually is, but not around Bucky. Not since they met.

"You're not wearing it now." Bucky points at him.

Clint touches his throat. "No."

"Because when you do ... "

"It's. Oh. It's special." Clint says softly.

"There you go," Bucky says.

Steve looks away. "Tulips are stupid."

What the hell was that? Everyone has special occasion clothes. It doesn’t mean every time Steve asks Bucky to wear his shirts they have to have an eight-month fight about it and spend a shit-ton of money buying out-of-season flowers.

****

Steve doesn’t often wake up before Bucky. But this time he does, running out for donuts and coffee and a minute to himself to collect his thoughts. The stockings were fucking sexy, and it was new and exciting, but Steve’s not sure if this is something Bucky _wants_.

What if Bucky is more like Clint, and he wants to wear dresses and stockings and lingerie all the time? That’s fine, if that’s what Bucky’s into, but. Steve supports him, it’s just that. God he sounds like a judgemental prick even in his own head, but he likes Bucky the way he is.

He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, cross-legged and drinking his coffee when Bucky wakes up. He hands Bucky his own coffee and the box of donuts, waiting for him to select one.

“So last night,” Steve starts. He’s not sure how to continue.

“Was good, right?” Bucky says, then takes a giant bite of a blueberry donut.

“Yeah, yeah, it was.” Steve shakes his head. “It was really good, Buck. Just. Is that going to be a thing? Are you. Do you want. Was that about?”

“Steve, baby, breathe,” Bucky laughs. “It was just something I wanted to do.”

Steve’s not sure if he should be relieved that Bucky’s laughing this off. Maybe he’s reading Steve’s reaction and downplaying something that he really wants. “Because if it’s a thing?”

Bucky looks into his eyes and rubs his thumb along his hand. “It’s not a thing. It’s just something I thought would be fun.”

Steve looks away and then back at him. There’s a streak of crystallized sugar across the top of his hand.

“It was fun, right?” Bucky says.

“It was really, really fun,” Steve says, taking a sip of his coffee.

****

“How long have you and Bucky been together?” Jeanie asks. Arturo cut down his hours to only Tuesdays and Thursdays to help out at the juvenile corrections center. His story is a good one, and he felt it was time to give back.

“Oh. Since, um. Some time last summer?”

She leans in, eyes sparkling with interest. “So is it casual?”

“No. No, it’s pretty serious. I mean, we live together.”

“Oh. But you don’t have an anniversary?”

“We do. It’s. We were dating since before my birthday, but we didn’t move in until after. So about a year? I guess? Can I have my change, please?”

****

Bucky’s leaning in a predatory way - Steve didn’t even know predatory leaning was a thing - against one of the food trailers when he comes back from the restrooms. He likes these fairgrounds because of the actual plumbing they have.

Bucky looks amazing, and Steve’s ready to pounce, except he notices the pack of guys, seven douchey fraternity jocks sneaking SoCo into their sno-cones. They’re obviously eyeing them up, looking to start shit. Steve knows that look. He’s used to being a target.

Bucky grins at him, mouth full of hot dog. “Ew, Bucky, finish that before opening your mouth,” Steve laughs.

Bucky does, but then he turns, pins Steve in between his body and his arms against the wall of the trailer. Steve ducks under his arm.

Sometimes Bucky doesn’t have a lot of common sense. It probably comes from never not being able to take care of himself. Not only does he have a weight advantage in most fights, he knows how to use it. He’s faster than people give him credit for, and he’s also, oh yeah, a secret ninja special forces fucking badass and it’s stupid hot.

There’s no reason to start anything with those assholes. It’s his birthday. Peggy will frown at him, Clint will get involved and get in trouble. Maria will probably have to arrest someone, though Steve’s not sure how jurisdiction works. Coulson will have to be all lawyery, and Natasha, too, but she’s said she’s not defending Clint against anything anymore.

“Clint’s found an archery game.” He smiles at Bucky, but Bucky’s not really looking at him. He doesn’t really know how to say, ‘It’s not you, I just don’t want to get our asses kicked tonight.’ Especially because sometimes Bucky gets a little lost when he’s fighting. Like he forgets jerks aren’t exactly The Enemy. Sometimes he has a hard time knowing when to stop.

By the time they catch up to Clint, he’s got another pile of teddy bears next to him, and Coulson’s standing back watching him. There’s a proud smile playing around Coulson’s lips, and no amount of tailoring on his slacks could hide what’s happening downstairs.

Bucky elbows him in the side and tilts his head toward Coulson.

“I know, right?”   

“Clint has good taste.”

Steve smiles at him, and Bucky leans down to kiss his cheek quickly.

****

Steve loves the beds at Tony’s cabin. Okay, so the shackles on the bed posts are a little disconcerting, but the bed is huge and high and sturdy and it’s kind of like there’s nothing in the world but him and Bucky and this bed when they’re here. He’s busy sucking marks into Bucky’s collarbone, one hand on Bucky’s ribs, one rubbing the underside of Bucky’s stomach, just a gentle slide of his hand back and forth. “Did I ever tell you thanks?”

“For what?” Bucky asks.

“For putting up with me,” Steve says, palms Bucky’s belly. ”With this. And how much I like it. Want it.”

“I’m not putting up with it, Steve,” Bucky says.

Steve tenses. He’s noticed the way Bucky’s toned up a little more recently. He hasn’t been sure if it was intentional or not.

Bucky continues, “I mean, I’m not doing it for you. I got lucky that you enjoy it the way you do, but it’s not one hundred percent for you. Not like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s like, eighty-three percent for you.” Bucky laughs.

“Shut up. It just seems like maybe you’ve been trying to do something about it?”

Bucky’s quiet.

“Buck?” Steve asks, his hands stopping their movement.

“Nah, Stevie. It’s just summer. More fruit, fewer cookies.”

“So you're not. I don't know. Unhappy?"

"Are you?"

"Fuck no." He leans down to kiss Bucky’s stomach some more, hands splayed across Bucky’s sides, holding on and rubbing his hands across his skin. He settles between Bucky’s legs and noses his way closer to his dick. “Tell me then,” he says.

“Tell you what, babe?” Bucky says, settling his hand into Steve’s short hair.

“Tonight.” Steve licks the crease between Bucky’s body and his thigh. “The cookout. Tell me what you’re gonna eat?”

“You want more specific than ‘everything,’ I take it.”

Steve bites at Bucky’s thigh, sucks hard, marks him up where he’s soft and pale. “Tell me,” he says again.

“Okay, okay.”

Steve closes his lips around the head of Bucky’s cock, his hand working beneath himself on his own dick. He’s only listening half-heartedly, just the murmur of sound and the vibrations of Bucky’s voice doing the trick for him.

Bucky comes deep in Steve’s mouth, and he jerks fast on his own dick, only a few more strokes until he’s collapsed down, breaths harsh against Bucky’s thigh.

****

Steve calls Bucky as soon as the plane lands.

Steve calls him from the back of the cab on the way to the hotel.

Steve calls him once he’s settled at the hotel, but he’s pretty sure Bucky is drunk enough he’ll never remember the conversation. He trusted Tony to look after Bucky, and he called Sam from the plane, but he’s still waiting for a return call in the morning.

Steve’s talking with Quill, a guy with a fondness for anthropomorphic botanical tattoos and raccoons when his phone buzzes from his pocket. He smiles and excuses himself to check the message.

_ What are you wearing? _

He texts back _clothes_.

Quill smirks at him. “I’m gonna give you like five minutes to tell your sexty-friend you don’t got time for all that, and then you’re going to meet me at my booth and show me how you did that lotus this morning.”

_You’re no fun,_ Bucky’s sent.

Steve sends back  _untrue i am the most fun_ .

_You are also a liar_

Steve smiles fondly. He really does need to spend this time networking though, so he types out a quick, _sorry, v busy. later?_ before sliding out from behind his tables to show Quill the lotus.

Sam calls him later in the evening and tells him he’s at a development conference for the weekend. He’ll try to call Bucky to check in, but maybe one of the others would be better help.

Steve calls Clint and makes him promise to take Bucky to breakfast the next day. He threatens him with telling Coulson about The Incident if he doesn’t.

“Dude, I woulda done it anyway,” Clint whines. “There’s no reason to break out the big guns.”

Steve hears Coulson say something in the background, but it’s indistinguishable behind Clint’s rushed “Nothing! Nothing, Sir! We got a breakfast date in the morning, that’s all!”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Steve does not like doing drag. It’s a hell of a lot of effort and work for something he’s not at all interested in. He decides to do it for Tony’s party though after seeing how much Bucky enjoyed the stockings. He has another little surprise in mind for Bucky, too, because they’ll all be partying the night away and crashing at Stark’s.

If his reaction is anything to go by, Bucky at least likes the look of Steve in drag. They’re dancing gracefully around the floor at Stark’s. As soon as Bucky reminded Steve to let him lead, they fell into a groove and Steve is able to keep up the conversation and let him mind wander a little bit without thinking about the steps.

Bucky claims he wouldn’t mind marrying him. Steve is feeling reckless and ridiculous for even bringing it up, because who wouldn’t want to get married after that nonsense with Peggy and Maria. The ceremony was adorable and romantic and hot and sweet. And the reception was an incredible amount of fun and public debauchery.

There was something about it. Steve can’t really put his finger on it, but this was something. Like Clint said. It … meant something.

But Steve remembers the buildup to it all, the petty arguments, the dark circles under Peggy’s eyes that her makeup didn’t cover. The fighting over _tulips_ , of all things. And that’s just the buildup to the wedding. It doesn’t even cover the marriage itself. Those fall apart all the time.

Steve scratches his temple where the wig is falling again after Bucky spins him an a nicely timed turn. “I can just imagine you causing all kinds of scandals with diplomats’ wives.”

“That only happened once, and it was a daughter, not a wife,” Bucky says.

“Really?” Steve’s stunned, except not really. Bucky’s a natural charmer and sexy as hell. He probably had the local girls eating out of his hands constantly.

“No.”

Steve pulls back, laughing. “So are you ever going to let me in on any of your top secret spy stories?” he asks. He wants to know, sometimes feels a little sad that Bucky doesn't share that part of himself with Steve. Wonders if it’s more a matter of _can't_ than _won't_.

“Or if you tell me will you have to kill me?”

Bucky visibly swallows and Steve silently curses himself. He feels a tremble start in Bucky’s hands and tightens his hold.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve says, squeezing his hand again. He sees Tony and Bruce gesturing at them and latches on to an immediate change in subject. “Bet if you dip me, you’d make Stark’s day.”

The song’s winding down as Bucky twirls him over to Tony, Bruce and Pepper and then dips him dramatically. Steve bends as far as he can, letting Bucky’s hand on the small of his back hold him steady.

“Nice moves, Dancing Queen,” Tony says, handing them both a flute of champagne and toasting them.

Steve finally pulls the wig off his head. It was clinging by one pin anyway after that dip. Besides, he’s gotten his fingers around those suspenders again.

He fills a plate and hands it to Bucky to keep from jumping him right on the dance floor. Clint tried that once with Coulson and ended up in the corner for most of the party. Steve’s pretty sure he should at least try to maintain a sense of decorum. For Clint’s sake.

Bruce says something about the spare rooms to Bucky, who barely hesitates in making their excuses and pulling Steve with him to disappear down the hallway.

It’s nice to know the dancing did something to Bucky, too. Steve switches places so that he’s leading Bucky, walking backward and tugging him along with the suspenders. Just like the dance, but he’s leading now.

"Still hate Halloween?"

"Still hate Halloween," Bucky answers him. “Coming around on the suspenders, though.”

****

Steve wakes up in the middle of the night, confused for a moment before he remembers he’s still in Tony’s guest room. Bucky closes the door behind him.

“Babe? Did I wake you?”

Steve shakes his head, reaching out to Bucky. “Where’d you go?”

“Got a drink. And remembered we had these.” Bucky brings over the plate piled high with cookies they’d forgotten about in their earlier hurry to the bed.

“Oh. Yeah, I forgot about those.”

“I didn’t.” Bucky grins at him. “What have we got here? Peanut butter, oh, those little sugar cookies in the shape of pumpkins, cute. Lemon … something? Rosemary? And a … jesus. You and your yuppie friends.”

“Hey!” Steve pushes Bucky’s shoulder but he’s braced for it, doesn’t even budge.

Bucky laughs and takes another bite of a different cookie. “Stevie, eat this, what is that?”

Steve takes a bit of a cookie he can barely see. “Cardamom. It’s good.”

“Tastes like soap.”

Steve makes a noncommittal noise. “Try this one.”

Bucky swallows, drinks his milk and bites into the soft cookie Steve held out to him. “Fuck me, that’s delicious,” he says. “That yours? The apple pie thing?”

“Yeah.” Steve licks his lips, watching Bucky lean in for another bite. When he takes the last of the cookie, he scrapes his teeth along the side of Steve’s thumb.

“There more of those?”

Steve looks at the plate in the dim light coming through the window. “There are a lot more. I think I got carried away at the buffet table.”

“Oh yeah? Distracted?”

“What can I say,” Steve says. “You’re distracting.” He holds another cookie out to Bucky. “Another?”

“Mmm, yeah.”

Bucky holds Steve’s hips gently after finishing most of the cookies on the plate. Except the cardamom ones. Steve ate those. They were good, spicy and subtly sweet. It’s too bad Bucky doesn’t like them, he wouldn’t mind trying to make them himself.

Bucky kisses him slowly, softly. Steve had woken up half hard, and watching Bucky with the cookies hadn’t done anything to dampen his arousal. He’s rubbing against Bucky’s thigh, one hand still on his shoulder, the other coming down to lightly stroke up and down Bucky’s cock.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve whispers, almost afraid that speaking out loud will break this spell they’ve woven around themselves.

Bucky bites at his lip, tugs once and then kisses down Steve’s neck.

“Can I? Let me do you, okay?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Steve sits back between Bucky’s thighs and helps him pull off his boxers, slowly, and then kisses soft and wet from Bucky’s knees to his hips.

“You gonna keep teasing me?”

Steve keeps licking everywhere but where Bucky wants him most. “Yes.”

Bucky cups Steve’s head, resting his hand there without pushing. Steve presses on Bucky’s nipple piercing with his finger and then finally sucks the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth. He works his tongue across the head and tightens his lips, just a touch of teeth that makes Bucky hiss and grip Steve’s hair.

Steve pulls off. “Bad?”

“No, no, perfect,” Bucky gasps.

Steve reaches up the bed for the lube Bucky’d tossed down when they hadn’t needed it earlier and sucks his cock back into his mouth. Steve rubs in circles, slowly.

Bucky says he likes bottoming, but he likes topping just as much. Generally Steve has a marked preference, so they don’t do it this way all that often. Steve wants to make sure it’s good for Bucky. Wants to be sure he enjoys it enough to indulge Steve when he gets it into his head to fuck him.

When Bucky’s pressing back against his fingers, trying to pull Steve inside him, Steve relents, presses. He slides one finger in deep, then adds a second quickly. Bucky makes a soft noise and kisses him.

“Good?”

“So good, babe. So good. I’m ready. Do it.”

Steve pulls his hand away, slicks himself up fast and lines up. He presses in smoothly, pressing forward until he bottoms out. Bucky pulls Steve into him, and Steve keeps his thrusts as steady as he can. It’s hard, though. Bucky’s so hot and tight around him, and his hands are so big and thick and hot on his back. It’s everything, it’s perfect.

“Perfect, so perfect, fuck, Bucky.”

“Make me come, Steve. Come on, baby.” Bucky’s finger brushes along the shell of Steve’s ear, soft and gentle and Steve can’t help it, he’s coming before he even knows it. He grips Bucky’s cock, just this side of too tight, and pulls, his hand still slick from earlier when he got Bucky ready.

Bucky clenches down on him when he comes, pulling another shudder out of Steve, coming thick and hot over Steve’s hand.

Feeling limp and boneless, Steve pulls out carefully. Bucky pulls him close and wraps him up, spooned up behind him, his arm heavy across Steve’s side.

“Love you, Stevie,” Bucky whispers.

Steve kisses Bucky’s wrist where it’s resting in front of him. “Love you, too.”

****

“Babe, you don’t shower together to get clean. You shower together to get dirty,” Bucky laughs at him, pushing him out of the way of the spray so Steve can look up at him.

“But we already _got_ dirty. That’s why we’re in the shower!”

“That’s why you’re in the shower. I’m in the shower for the hot, wet, slippery dude.”

Steve shakes his head and Bucky laughs again.

****  

“Can you get that?” Bucky yells to him from the bathroom. At least, that’s what he thinks Bucky’s saying, with his mouth full of toothpaste and his phone going off on the other side of the room.

Steve freezes. “Um. You want me to answer your phone?”

“Yeah.”

There’s no way Steve’s going to do that. That’s Bucky’s phone. It’s private. It’s his.

There might be things on it Bucky doesn’t want Steve to see.

Things Steve doesn’t want to see.

“Why don’t you just let it go to voicemail?” The phone stops ringing. “There.”

Bucky rinses and spits and walks into the main room of their apartment. He pulls the ends of the towel taut around the back of his neck. “You’re here. Clint only texts. Our other friends call you first. Which means it’s either Sam, the VA, or my mom.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, watching the phone like it might turn into a viper and bite him.   

“Your phone didn’t start ringing next, so it’s not Sam.”

“Okay.”

“So you can talk to Mom or the VA for me,” Bucky says, like Steve’s being particularly dim today.

“But I don’t want to be in your phone,” Steve says. Robert would go through Steve’s phone every chance he got. There wasn’t anything to find, but it made him feel like Robert didn’t trust him (which he didn’t) and he doesn’t want to do that to Bucky.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Bucky says. “There’s nothing for me to hide.”

“Fuck you and your clairvoyance,” Steve mutters.

“Nah, you’re just shockingly predictable.” The phone starts ringing again, and Bucky tosses it to Steve. “It’s Mom. Answer it. It’s weird talking to her when I’m just in my boxers. She’s my _mom_.”

****

Clint lists off five people.

“Who’s on your list, Coulson?” Bucky laughs as Coulson comes back over to their table.

“I don’t have a list,” Coulson says, setting a Coke down in front of Clint and taking a drink from his beer.

“Yeah, he gets free reign to go after whoever.”

“Dom’s prerogative,” Coulson says, smiling.

Steve looks scandalized. "But. But."

“I’m teasing him, Steve. I don’t have an exceptions list. Why would I want one?”

Bucky makes mocking gagging noises until Steve elbows him.

“Who’s on yours?” Clint asks.

“Tim Lincecum.”

Bucky looks at him, “He’s so scrawny, though.”

Steve holds up his hands and starts ticking off points on his fingers.  “He’s a pitcher, he’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of song lyrics, and he’s, you know, really cute. He’d probably let me feed him up. I can wait until he retires. You know what happens to pro athletes when they retire.” Steve nods to himself, firmly. “Yeah. I’d let him fuck me.”

“Okay, who else?” Clint asks.

“No one.”

“You get five,” Bucky says.

“Well, I mean, I reserve the right to adjust that at any time, but no. No one. I don’t want just anyone to get a piece of this. What if they’re an asshole or won’t kiss you after you suck their dick or something?”

****

“Hey, you’re the one who scheduled your physical for the week after Thanksgiving,” Sam laughs. “You can’t be pissy when the doc tells you you should maybe mix in some cardio if you go in after you spend a damn week eating two of everything Steve here knows how to cook.”

“I’m sorry, where was I at eleven yesterday morning?” Bucky sits back, letting Ruby set Steve’s short stack and his waffle combo platter down in front of them.

“Mile three,” Steve says.

“That’s right, baby. Mile. Three.” Bucky confirms, passing the syrup over to Steve. “My cardio is fine.”

“ _Yeah_ it is,” Steve says, sleazily. “Your _everything_ is fine.”

“Stop, stop,” Sam begs. “I’m trying to eat.”

Bucky smacks a wet kiss loudly onto Steve’s cheek.

****

When Sam leaves them to their afternoon, Steve leans over to Bucky. “What, exactly, did the doctors say?”

“I know you pretty damn well by now, baby. I’m not about to tell you the actual number on a city street.”

“We don’t need anything from the market," Steve says.

“We don’t?" Bucky saunters along, all slinky hips and casual indifference.

“We don’t. If you want to take me home and tell me then?”

“Hmm. I very much would like to do that, yes.”

Steve tugs on his hand, hurrying. “We live too far from the diner.”

“We live a block and a half from the diner.”

Steve nods. “Way too far.”

Bucky pushes Steve down onto the bed.

“Two.” He pulls Steve over to the side, flat on his back.

“Forty.” He pushes Steve’s thighs up to his chest.

“Seven.” Bucky grabs Steve under his ass and lines up, pushing in quick, hard and fast, and a breath punches its way out of Steve’s chest.

“God, this bed is great,” Bucky moans.

Steve laughs and it quickly turns into a long sigh. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

****

“You did this on purpose. With your shredded pants and that shirt. Is that even your shirt? It’s tight enough to be my shirt.” Steve tugs Bucky’s shirt up from where it barely meets his waistband to begin with.

Bucky tastes like chocolate, everywhere. He’d gotten a piece of every type of cake their friends had brought for him, but he’d eaten the most chocolate. They actually packed that one up and brought it home with them, because Bucky insisted it was too good to let anyone else have a bite. “It’s my birthday,” he insisted.

Steve glared at Darcy when she started to object. The first birthday they were together, Bucky downplayed everything, acted like a birthday was just another day, like it shouldn’t be celebrated. This year, Bucky was actually in the swing of things, pulling the birthday excuse out this whole week, from everything to getting Clint to grab him a beer from the bar to getting Steve to blow him in the shower.

He wasn’t about to let Darcy talk Bucky out of taking the cake home with them. Bucky wanted it, it was his birthday, and Steve had plans for that cake.  

He bites along Bucky’s jaw, setting the cake box down on the nightstand before Bucky backs him into the wall, hitching him up and pushing against him.

“I could fuck you here against the wall,” Bucky says. “Or you could feed me the rest of that cake. It’s my birthday.” Bucky grins at him.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says. He pushes Bucky’s shoulder so he sits on the bed. “You’re going to finish this cake. And then I’m going to suck you off.”

He turns quickly, trying to get to the kitchen, grab a fork, and get back to Bucky all at the same time. He looks back over his shoulder. Bucky’s shirt is positively painted on. “That is gorgeous,” he says, giving Bucky a once-over.

Bucky grins at him the way he usually does when Steve starts to appreciate his body. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but he pulls the hem of the shirt down and stretches it over his stomach. Then he stretches, lifts his arms over his head and the shirt rolls up as well.

Steve fills a glass of milk and brings it back over to the bed. He sits cross-legged on the bed next to Bucky and opens the cake box. “This is a lot of cake.”

“Yes it is.”

He drags his finger through the frosting. “It’s pretty rich.”

“Stop teasing.”

Steve holds his finger up to Bucky’s lips. “I don’t think you mean that at all.” Bucky sucks his finger into his mouth, the barest hint of teeth scraping the frosting off before Bucky releases his finger.

“Stop teasing,” Bucky says again.

“You first.” After a good dozen bites of cake, Steve checks in with him. Not that he can’t see that Bucky is doing just fine, but he wants to hear it.

“Take over for a few, okay?” He shoves the box up the bed and thrusts the fork at Bucky. Steve slides down the bed, impatient to get his hands on Bucky’s stomach, on his hips. He watches Bucky lick frosting off the fork as he licks the stretch marks on Bucky’s sides.

“Full?” he asks.

“Getting there. If you want me to do anything about that” - he cuts his eyes toward his crotch - “I’m going to need to stop now.” Bucky rubs his belly, watching Steve slide his fingers along his inseam.

Honestly, Steve can go either way. He’s going to get off tonight, that much is a given. It’s just a matter of how active a participant Bucky wants to be. “It’s your birthday, what do you want?”

Bucky hums for a moment. “Kinda want your mouth and a nap.”

Steve goes back kissing Bucky’s hips, murmuring, “We can absolutely do that. Take a couple more bites first.”

Bucky cuts another bite with no hesitation. He waits for Steve to watch his mouth before he scoops the bite off the plate. Steve encourages him, not really sure what he’s saying, just sliding his palms across the rounded stomach in front of him.

“So hot, Bucky. Can you feel it? Like I can?”

“Yeah. Full.”

“So full,” Steve says, growing aware of how hard he is. He licks Bucky everywhere, sliding his tongue up and down his dick, getting him nice and wet. He can hear the click of the plate and fork and Bucky sets it aside on the table. He holds onto Bucky’s hips while he resettles on the bed, Bucky’s hand coming down on the back of Steve’s head just like he likes it, hot and firm, but not pushing, not choking, just there. Grounding him.

Bucky’s loose and lazy, laying back while Steve does all the work, and Steve loves it.  Bucky’s dick is hot and hard on his tongue. He has so much control, so much power over Bucky like this. Bucky lets him have it, this man who could break Steve in half.

It doesn’t take long before he’s tapping Steve on the shoulder. “You gonna let me come on your pretty face tonight, babe? Mess you all up?”

Steve groans. That would be the perfect thing right now, exactly what he wants. He pulls back, his hand still working Bucky’s dick, knowing exactly how much pressure to use, how to twist his wrist and brush his thumb across the head just right. Bucky tenses and Steve closes his eyes, leans in, lets Bucky’s come hit him on the cheek and chin, catching it on his lips.

As soon as he hears the soft grunt that means Bucky’s done, he can’t hold back, reaches up to kiss Bucky hard, thrusting against his thigh. Bucky’s big, warm hands pull him impossibly closer, and Bucky kisses his come off Steve’s face while Steve ruts against him.

It’s intense and Steve lets himself cuddle up with Bucky, content that he’s wanted, that Bucky won’t choose this night to decide Steve’s too clingy to put up with all night.

“Happy birthday, Buck,” he says, and he’s pretty sure he hears Bucky tell him he loves him before he falls asleep.

****

Steve rubs his eyes. He’s tired and he’s getting sick again. He can tell. He’s done nothing but drink juice and down cold meds every four hours and Ruby made a whole batch of chicken soup with extra garlic just for him. He wants to get the things they need (toothpaste, chocolate chips, cough drops, fucking dish soap) and go home. It isn’t until he gets home that he realizes he forgot the soap.

****

They forgot the soap. Again.

“Fuck. Okay,” he tells Bucky. “You go start checking out, I’ll go get the damn soap.”

Bucky salutes him, clicking his heels and executing a perfect about-face.

When he comes around the corner with the soap in hand, Bucky’s seductively licking the filling out of an Oreo and Jeanie has her shirt sleeve hitched all the way up her arm, leaning into Bucky. That’s really not okay.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says, mouth full of cookie. “Jeanie was thinking about adding some ink to her shoulder. What do you think?”

“Fine,” Steve says, paying and taking the bag. He could give a shit what Jeanie wants. What Jeanie wants, apparently, is to fuck his boyfriend, and Bucky has done absolutely nothing to discourage her. He doesn’t wait on Bucky when he leaves the shop. Maybe Jeanie wants to show him where else she wants a fucking tattoo.

“What the hell was that?” Bucky snaps when he catches up.

“I could ask you,” Steve mutters.

“Ask me what? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, forget it.” He’s tired. He doesn’t want to do this. Either Bucky knows what he’s doing and there’s no sense in discussing it, or he doesn’t know. And if that’s the case, Steve doesn’t want to put ideas in his head that might not already be there. Why point out the better option if he doesn’t already see it?

“No, it’s not nothing. You’re pissed about something, and damned if I know what it is.” Bucky says. Sometimes Steve forgets that Bucky can be just as stubborn as he is.

“You don’t know what it is. That’s the problem,” Steve says, opening the security door to their building without waiting for Bucky to follow him in.

“What is your problem?”

Steve refuses to believe Bucky is this stupid. “You ate her cookies!” Steve yells.

“Yeah? I mean, as long as that’s not a euphemism?”

“Fuck off, Bucky, it better not be a fucking euphemism.” Steve slams their front door.

“Steve, you cannot seriously be asking me if I’m fucking Jeanie because she offered me an Oreo.”

No, he didn’t think Bucky was fucking Jeanie. “You didn’t have to take it!”

“What the hell, she didn’t make them. It’s not like she works at Nabisco. It was a package of cookies. She was eating them and offered me one. It’s what you do.”

“She’s trying to ...” Steve trails off, waving his hands helplessly. Fucking Bucky applying logic to the situation. Steve’s head hurts and some girl wants his man and cookies were theirs. “Seduce you.”

“You are reading way too much into this.”

“You can’t see it?” Steve turns to him, flushed and angry with his hands on his hips. Bucky always has to be so damn reasonable. All Steve wants is for Bucky to yell, to get mad at Steve for even thinking he could want Jeanie, to explicitly say he’s not doing it, that he doesn’t want to. “You can stand there and look me in the eye and tell me you can’t see that she’s after your dick?”

Bucky crosses his arms. “Pretty sure not everyone courts via cookies. That might be exclusive to you.”

“Or there might be a fairly well-fucking-known idiom about hearts and stomachs. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“I just ate a cookie, Steve. I’m not interested. I want you, I love you.” Bucky puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “Come on. You have to know that.”

“I know that.” Steve sags against him, deflating. Hearing the words makes him feel better. “I am aware of the words coming out of my mouth, you know. I trust you. She can’t just go around offering other people’s boyfriends fucking Oreos, okay?” Steve leans into him, his arms coming up around Bucky’s waist.

“Okay. Next time, I’ll decline the offer of cookies. Any offer of cookies. Even if I’m starving to death and wasting away to nothing and there is no other food in sight. I’ll say, ‘No, for the only baked goods to pass these lips must be from my one true love.’ Deal?”

Steve laughs weakly. “You are the worst. Why do I put up with you?”

“My sweet ass.”

“She eats them by biting straight into them.” Steve points out. Bucky really needs to be made aware of how awful Jeanie really is. “She doesn’t twist them apart. What the fuck is that?”

“She’s clearly evil.” Bucky takes Steve’s face in his hands. “You good now?”

Steve nods. “I still don’t like her.”

****

Steve can smell the burned sugar all the way in the hallway. His first thought is that one of the neighbors is cooking meth. His second thought is that he has no idea what cooking meth might smell like. His third thought is how dead the hypothetical meth head will be when Bucky finds out they’re endangering Steve and Fabiana.

When Steve comes into their apartment, though, and sees how the kitchen has apparently blown up, Steve thinks maybe  _Bucky’s_ the one cooking meth.

“What’s this about, Bucky?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Steve says. Bucky never tries to cook anything. Bucky usually tries to prevent Steve from cooking anything.

He stands in front of Bucky on the sofa and bumps him with his knee. “What were you in the mood for? You know I’d be happy to make you anything you want.”

Bucky mumbles something that sounds like “Didn’t want you to make it.”

“Make what?”

Bucky pulls steve on top of him. “Snickerdoodles,” he hisses.

“I thought you likes snickerdoodles,” Steve says, laughing. He’s never heard anyone sound so angry at cookies they actually like.

“I do. They’re my favorites.” Bucky corrects himself. “They used to be my favorites.”

“And you’re acting like they rose up and kicked your puppy because …”

“It's our anniversary.” Bucky says, his lips against Steve’s forehead.

“...Oh. Shit, was I supposed to remember this?” Steve’s terrible with dates. He wouldn’t remember his own birthday if it wasn’t a national holiday.

“No.” Bucky laughs and it makes his belly jiggle underneath Steve. Steve’s hand is drawn there immediately, and he pushes Bucky’s shirt up under his arms. “You made me snickerdoodles first, remember?”

Steve nods. He remembers. He’d angsted over the decision, chocolate chip versus snickerdoodles.

“So I got it into my head that I could make some for you. Well, for me. For you to give to me. Like I wanted you to then.”

“You wanted to do this with the cookies I made for you then?” Steve’s rubbing circles onto Bucky’s stomach, dipping lower with each pass, giving in and unbuttoning Bucky’s jeans.

“You’re kidding me, right? I wanted to fuck you from the minute I first saw you.”

“Shut up,” Steve scoffs. Bucky doesn’t lie to hurt him, but Steve knows sometimes he says things that aren’t entirely factual to make him feel better. “You loved me.” The _yeah, right_ is implied.

“I didn’t say I loved you, I said I wanted to fuck you,” Bucky says, lifting his hips so Steve can pull his jeans down his thighs.

“Oh, that’s much better,” Steve says, his voice gone low. It is better. He finds that much, much easier to believe. Steve’s very fuckable. “So you wanted to make me cookies to feed to you tonight?”

Bucky nods, watching Steve’s fingers tap along the shaft of his dick.

“But instead, you’re just going to fuck me slow, right?”

Bucky nods again.

“Happy anniversary,” Steve says, climbing off Bucky’s lap and stripping on his way to the bed. He kneels on the bed and looks back over his shoulder. “It seems to me that you have a fondness for me like this.”

Bucky smiles. “Halloween?”

“Do you still have those suspenders?”

Bucky laughs. “Yes. They’re in our lingerie drawer.” Bucky strokes one hand up Steve’s back and leaves the other on his hip.

“ _Our lingerie drawer_. I can honestly tell you that is not a phrase I ever expected someone I was living with to say.”

Bucky kisses his back. “You want it like this? Really?”

Steve nods. He doesn’t usually go for doggy style, because of their height difference and because he can’t see Bucky’s belly. But he feels like maybe he owes Bucky one. He did forget their anniversary after all. And it’s definitely, definitely not a hardship for Bucky to fuck him from behind.

Bucky presses between Steve’s shoulder blades and Steve leans over, resting his forehead on the bed and tilting his hips up.

“That’s nice, baby,” Bucky mutters.

“Bony,” Steve denies.

“Perfect,” Bucky says.

****

Steve pretty much blinks and they’re pulling off on the Epic Road Trip From Hell.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky leans over to him in the shitty little club outside Pittsburgh. “Headed to the bar. I am way too sober for this shit.”

Steve laughs and follows him. “This is a  _really_ bad band.”

“I don’t know. I mean, if they’d just go ahead and admit they’re an out-of-tune, talentless  Pixies cover band they might be okay.”

“Fuck,” Steve says.

“What?”

“That is the sexiest thing you’ve ever said,” Steve tries to hold a straight face, but he can’t. “Come on, let’s go wait outside.”

Bucky stretches, tipping his head back and draining the last of the beer that he’s not technically allowed to have outside, but no one stopped him. His shirt rides up, and the light catches on a couple of stretch marks on his sides. Steve swallows, losing his train of thought. He leans against the wall next to Bucky, slides his arm around him and tucks his fingers into Bucky’s waistband.

Coulson and Clint finally come outside, and they make the short drive back to the hotel. Steve can’t stop running his hands along the hem of Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky’s content to let him.

It takes Bucky three times to get the stupid magnetic lock reader to take their hotel key because Steve keeps kissing him, but when they finally get inside, Steve backs him back into the wall. He keeps his hands in Bucky’s pants, stroking and pressing his palms flat.

“Oh,” Bucky says quietly. “Yeah, I guess I grew a little faster than I could keep up with.” He reaches over and turns the lamp off.

“Hey! Where’d the light go?” Steve complains, pushing Bucky back to the closest bed in their room. “I was looking.”

Steve runs his fingers along the marks, testing the differences in the way his skin feels. “You’re so fucking sexy, I can’t even believe it.”

“Are you for real right now?”

“What?” Steve pulls back. He waits for Bucky to get comfortable, then he climbs back on top, sitting on Bucky’s thighs and rubbing his hands up and down his sides. “This isn’t new.”

“Even that though?” Bucky grabs Steve’s wrists, presses his hand into his side.

“Yeah, of course.” Steve’s not sure why they’re having this conversation. It’s been pretty well established that yes, Steve is very much into all of this. Unless … Maybe Bucky’s not. Or not anymore. Or not as much.

“Should we have a safe word?”

“What?” Bucky blinks.

“For when you’re eating.” Steve’s blankly staring at his hand where he’s still rubbing circles.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s one of those kinds of things with us.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Steve lies down next to him. It seems like the mood’s broken now, and Steve’s not sure how to get it back. Bucky isn’t doing anything to help him out, so Steve just rolls over onto his side.  

So Bucky is content to tell him to stop when he wants to stop eating. He’s done it once or twice. It’s been a while since Steve’s been able to really indulge himself. Maybe not doing it has made Bucky realize he doesn’t want it or need it.

****

Steve’s just managed to fall asleep in the back seat when Bucky suddenly pulls back out from under him and shouts, “Wait! When the fuck did you sleep with Clint?”

The car jerks to the left and Clint mutters, “Oh, fuck.”

“We had a thing. In college,” Steve says, waking up and pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“A thing.”

“It was casual,” Clint says.

Steve nods. “Casual.”

Bucky doesn’t look like he’s buying it, so Steve clarifies. “You know. Hand and mouth stuff.”

“Oh, that’s not going to help,” Clint mutters from the driver’s seat, speeding up noticeably.

“Oh, just hand and mouth stuff. That makes it better. No reason you should have maybe mentioned that to me at some point in the last two years! How many of our friends fucked you, Steve?”

“I never fucked him!” Clint insists.

“None,” Steve bites out. “If you’re going to be like this, if you really want to get technical about it, only you have that honor.” Steve’s never hidden his past from Bucky. Anything Bucky’s asked, he’s answered. Bucky just hasn’t asked a whole lot.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Coulson says.

“But wait.” Bucky’s clenching his hands. Steve knows this means they’re shaking and for a mean, vicious minute, he’s glad. There’s no reason to have this conversation, to get all up in their faces about it, to wake Steve up and accuse him of … whatever. “You said. I distinctly remember you said it had been a while.”

“It had.”

“Yeah, I’d call twenty-four years a while!” Bucky shouts.

“It wasn’t twenty-four years. It was like, eight months.” Steve huffs out a breath and crosses his arms. “It’s not like I’d never had anything in my ass before, Bucky.”

"Please pull over, Clint,” Coulson says in his done-with-everything voice. Steve wishes he had a magic done-with-everything voice. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to have this conversation. Ever. Everyone always listens to Coulson. He’s like the group dad.

Bucky slams the door behind him. Steve sits for a minute, unsure as to whether he should go look at the ice cooler or follow Bucky or wait in the car. The clerk probably thinks he’s about to be robbed.

Steve climbs out of the car when Bucky comes out, but just stands there awkwardly when he turns on his heel and goes right back inside to buy a lighter. He picks a purple one, because Clint will steal it. Clint always steals his lighters, even though Clint hasn’t smoked since before Steve dropped out of college.

Bucky hands him a Coke and jerks his head toward the opposite end of the parking lot. “Explain this to me.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. There’s nothing to say. There’s really nothing to say.

“I need to know how in two years it’s never come up that that night was your first time.”

Steve scoffs. “It wasn’t.”

Bucky takes five quick steps away, then rounds on Steve. “You know what I mean.”

“What do you want me to say, Buck?” Steve’s at a loss.

“I don’t know.” Bucky exhales a long stream of smoke and sits on the curb. “Sit.”

Steve sits next to him, but not as closely as he usually would. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He’s not sure if Bucky’s mad at him or not. Bucky’s mad, but it seems to be an aimless anger. Like he wants to be mad at him, but can’t quite bring himself to actually be mad at him.

“Great.”

“No,” he says. That’s not how he meant it. Fuck. “I mean, with you it was a big deal. That’s why we did it. But not having done it before wasn’t a big deal.”

“Why hadn’t you done it?” Bucky asks. He takes another long drag. “You. Look, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you got around a bit. Before me. You’ve told me that.”

Steve shrugs. “I just hadn’t done it yet.”

“How is that possible?”

Steve looks at the ground, picks at the label on his Coke bottle. He’s not ashamed of his kind-of-slutty past. He really isn’t. But Bucky’s acting like this is a huge deal and it isn’t.  “You know what I’m like, Bucky.”

“What are you like, Steve?”

Bucky always makes him use his words. It’s a damn good thing he likes Sam as much as he does, or he might have to punch him in the face for teaching Bucky the value of talking. Steve sighs and lists off just a few of his worst qualities. “Fussy? Particular? Demanding? Bossy?”

“True.”

“Okay, and. You know. The kinds of guys I like.” Steve waves a hand at Bucky. “Usually, guys like that, who want guys like me ...” Steve gestures at himself, indicating the lack of anything substantial he’s bringing to the physicality table. He sighs again. “They’re good with me wanting to take it, which we were usually in agreement on. But they weren’t so keen on me, you know, directing things. The way I want.”

“Assholes.”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

Steve shrugs again. “People like what they like, I guess. And I was kind of worried. I didn’t have to take gym class, but I had to go to gym class.” He smiles a little wryly. “I still heard locker room talk. It was supposed to be, like, the most painful thing ever. I’d already been through a lot of painful stuff. I certainly wasn't about to put myself through that for some jerk I barely liked. Not when blow jobs feel really good. And the longer I didn’t do it, the more apprehensive I got. So the more I wanted to be …” He trails off, not sure what word to use.

“In charge?”

“Yes,” Steve breathes, relieved. “And maybe I got a little … dickish.”

“No,” Bucky drawls, voice full of faux incredulity.

“Shut up,” Steve says, reflexively. Mostly he’s relieved that this doesn’t seem like it’s going to continue to be a big deal. “So the length of a hand job or a blow job was about all anyone could put up with me for. And at that point, you know, everyone got what they came for, so there wasn’t much of a reason to hang around after.”

Bucky snorts.

“Right.” Steve bumps him with his shoulder. “I’d done everything else.”

“You should have told me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I should have been aware.”

Well, that’s a stupid reason. “Virginity is just a societal conce-“

“Steve, I swear to God.”

‘Well, it is.” Steve rolls his eyes. “What difference would it have made?”

“I could have tried to make it a little more special.” Bucky says. He sounds like he would have done something different, which is exactly what Steve didn’t want.

“It was special, though.”

Bucky makes a disbelieving sound.

Steve can’t have that. It’s important to Bucky, for whatever reason, and he did make it special. “It was. You were all. Patient. And, like, sweet. Jesus, Bucky, don’t make me talk about it.”

“So when Darcy said the thing about taking it slow … “

Steve nods. Bucky’s fucking perceptive ninja skills on display again.

“She didn’t know about me, I don’t think. But, Bucky, you have to understand,” Steve says. He doesn’t have anything to lose at this point by letting Bucky in on how stupid he was for him.

“I was so into you, and that hadn’t really worked out so well for me before. And you seemed to like putting up with me. So I figured, you know, if anyone was going to do me right, it was going to be you.” He shrugs.

“That is the most fucked-up sweet thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I wasn’t wrong.”

Bucky throws his arm across Steve’s shoulders and pulls him close. “You’re kinda messed up, Stevie.”

“You love me.”

“God help us all.”

“Get in the car.”

Bucky laughs. “Seriously, I think the clerk has the _nine_ and the _one_ dialed, he’s just waiting for Clint to flinch before he hits the other _one_.”

Clint peers warily out from behind Coulson, where he’s using him as a human shield. “Is Bucky going to kill me? Sir, don’t let him kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” Bucky keeps his arm pretty firmly around Steve though. It’s probably not conscious, though Steve’s glad Bruce isn’t there to comment on mammalian body language.

“You look way too happy for someone who has to spend another week in a car with someone who used to semi-regularly blow your boyfriend,” Clint says suspiciously.

Coulson actually facepalms. “Why do I try? Honestly, sweet boy, do you ever think before you open your mouth?”

“It’s cool. We’re cool. I’m just gonna blow yours and call it even.”

Steve can’t tell whose “ _What_?” is louder, his or Clint’s, but Bucky’s laughter is definitely louder than both of them.

A patrol car pulls into the parking lot right about then, and Coulson herds them all into his sedan to get them back on their way.

****

Steve’s standing just behind Bucky holding their duffle bag as they step up on the porch when a blur of long dark hair comes flying out at Bucky. Bucky catches the blur and says, “Hi, Amy.” His voice is soft and a little rough. Steve stands there feeling all kinds of awful for keeping Bucky from his family, even though he really has nothing to do with it.

“Amy, this is Steve.” Bucky lets Amy go and puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Steve, Amy.”

“Wow. You’re short,” Amy says, and then seems to realize exactly what she just said.

“It’s okay, I know.” People act like he’s unaware of his height. As if this is not a thing he lives with every day.

Bucky tugs him forward, grinning. “His voice, though, right?”

An older woman who looks so much like Bucky and Amy they could be triplets appears in the doorway. “Come in, come in!”

Suddenly Steve’s wrapped in a hug that he has no idea how to handle and he’s being interrogated about whether he’s hungry or thirsty or if he needs anything and how the trip was and if he’s warm enough.

It’s a lot of questions.

Steve knows how Bucky’s mom rambles on the phone, but apparently that carries over to in-person as well. Steve tries to sit politely on the sofa and let Bucky and his family catch up with each other, but Mrs. Barnes just keeps _talking_ and Amy keeps casting him looks and making snide comments.

He’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Bucky’s brought someone home, and entirely about the fact that Bucky’s brought _him_ home. He’s not sure what he’s done, but there’s obviously something. She’s good, though. No one else seems to be picking up on it. Maybe he’s just being paranoid. He’s never done the meet the parents thing before.

When the women go into the kitchen and decline his offer of help, Steve takes a deep breath. It feels like the first lungful he’s gotten since Coulson’s car pulled away from the curb.

“Hey, Buck, look what I found.” Steve hands him the book he spotted on the side table.

“What’s that?” Bucky squints at it and holds Steve’s wrist steady to get a better look. “Coulson’s book?”

Steve sits back. He smiles. “That means there are at least three people in this hrmf -”

Bucky cuts him off by covering his mouth and pressing him against the back of the sofa. It’s the most comfortable he’s felt in this room all night.  

“Shut up, Steve. That is my _mother_ and my _baby sister_ you are talking about. Neither one of them knows what any kind of sex is.”

Steve laughs from behind Bucky’s hand. “Oh, it’s not just any kind of sex.” His words are muffled, but Bucky’s left him plenty of breathing room.

“Steve. No one living in this house has ever had sex.”

Bucky is dead serious. About his mother and his nineteen-year-old sister.

Steve can’t stop laughing. “Kinky. Werewolf. Sex!”

Bucky presses him down into the corner more firmly. “You will never have sex again if you don’t shut up!”

Suddenly, Mrs. Barnes is coming through the doorway, and Steve pushes Bucky off him. He’s blushing furiously, even though they weren’t even doing anything. He doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

He’s pretty sure she thinks of him as some kind of corrupting agent already, even though she’s not been anything but nice to him. Amy definitely doesn’t like him. When Mrs Barnes tells them they’ll be taking Amy’s room, Steve’s not sure how to take it. One the one hand, Mrs. Barnes isn’t making them sleep separately, for which he’s infinitely grateful. On the other hand, they’re kicking Amy out of her room, and that can’t be winning him any points.

Bucky leaves him to go put their things in Amy’s room, and Steve sits awkwardly on the sofa.

“Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?” he calls to, well, anyone who can hear him. Mrs Barnes is talking to Amy, still louder than she probably thinks she is and still a mile a minute.

So it’s not just him they’re disappointed with. It’s Bucky’s body and all the modifications he’s made to it to make himself more comfortable in his own skin.

Steve shakes his head. As long as they don’t say anything to Bucky. He loves them because Bucky loves them, and he’ll let Bucky handle his relationship with his family any way he wants. Steve’s not an expert at family relationships anyway. But Bucky’s his. Bucky’s his to protect, and he’ll play the role of the bad guy if that’s what it takes to cut out anyone who tries to hurt him.

****

“Phil? I’m sorry to interrupt your time with Clint, but I need you to come get us right now. Please.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Bucky needs out of here.”

Coulson breathes deeply. “Too much, too fast, too soon?”

Steve swallows. “Yeah. Can you come get us, please?”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Bucky’s holding himself together pretty well, all told. Amy and his mom can see he’s upset, but Steve does his best to smooth it over. He makes himself and Coulson out to have some kind of work emergency, promises they’ll come back out soon. Maybe they can bring the girls out for Christmas.

“Christmastime in New York is an experience everyone should have. We’ll go to Times Square for the ball drop and everything.” Steve would promise to fly them to the moon by flapping his own arms right now if it would get Bucky out of there faster.

Bucky’s pliant and quiet and it scares Steve when he gets like this. It’s the only time he’s ever afraid of Bucky, for Bucky.

Steve’s lived in New York all his life. He knows the vets who can’t keep out of their heads, what happens to them. How they sometimes sit in the alleyway and sometimes notice every detail of every passerby on the street, and other times don’t notice the change plinking into their cups.

The thought that _his Bucky_ could ever end up like that makes Steve’s heart hurt and his lungs seize up and he loses all feeling in his fingers.

He pushes Bucky into Coulson’s car and then pushes him into Coulson’s hotel room and then pushes him into bed and finally wraps himself around him, scratching his fingers across his scalp. Bucky’s hair is damp and limp. He wet it down in his shower but he didn’t wash it.

Steve kisses the back of Bucky’s neck and tells him he loves him, that his family loves him, that everyone wants him to be happy. He tells him he’s perfect and gorgeous and that he’s everything Steve ever wanted. He tells him about color theory and he recites his snickerdoodles recipe and he tells him about the math class he had to take in college and how if it wasn’t for Clint he’d never have passed.

“Clint?” Bucky asks, finally.

“Yeah, Buck. Clint’s crazy good with numbers. Can’t read for shit, but he balances all the books for me before Pepper looks them over in Tony’s quarterly investment meetings.”

“Huh.”

“I know, right?” Steve says. “You back with me?”

“Getting there.”

“Need anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Just you.”

****

Antoine tells Steve about the setup for the video they want to do when Steve finishes Bucky’s back.

“Yeah, that’ll be great. As long as Bucky agrees.”

“Of course. I have the release right here. But he’ll agree to it. He wants you to get the exposure you deserve, Steve.”

“Yeah. He’s awesome like that.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

Clint and Bucky come back from their circuit around the convention floor, and Bucky’s got his sexy walk going. Steve doesn’t know who taught Bucky to move his body like that, but he would like to find them and give them several hundred dollars.

“You have no idea,” Steve says.

Bucky wraps Steve up from behind and tucks his chin over Steve’s shoulder. “Hey, babe.”

He smells like coffee. Steve backs him up so that Bucky can sit on Steve’s tattooing stool and not have to let go of him.

“Antoine,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, hey,” Antoine says, shaking Bucky’s hand and then stepping back. “Nice to see you. Steve said he was going to finish your back tomorrow. We’re really looking forward to that.’

Bucky confirms. There’s a weird undercurrent going on here, but Steve’s not sure what’s happening. Maybe he’s nervous about the tat.

“We’re going to record it. If we can get you to sign the releases, we’d like to put it up on the site.”

Steve turns his head so he can look at Bucky. “We’re going to make you a star!”

Bucky tightens his arms around Steve and says, “Yeah. I’m in.”

After pulling on Bucky’s shirt to go to sleep in that night, Steve asks him. “You nervous?”

“No, it’s just my back. Linework’s already been done. Shading’s just annoying.”

“What’s on your mind, then?” Steve flops down on the bed, stretching his back.

Bucky sits next to him, running his hand in a firm line from Steve’s fingertips to his thigh. “You know the way the ink bottles looked on the display across from your booth?”

Steve nods, arching into Bucky’s touch. Usually he springs for a massage while he’s out here. The convention forces him to twist his body and angle himself in ways he normally wouldn’t. But maybe he can get Bucky to give him a massage instead. Bucky’s big hands, warm and strong on his back, his neck, his shoulders.

“Thinking about what that looked like. Don’t know what to do with it yet, but I’m turning the visual over in my head. Something in glass maybe. There’s always broken bottles around.”

“Sounds good. Pretty,” Steve says, rolling onto his side and tugging Bucky to lie down with him. He starts kissing across Bucky’s shoulders, down his chest, pausing at Bucky’s nipple ring, tugging on it with his teeth.

“You had a good day, then?”

“‘Bout to have a better one,” Steve says, then wrinkles his nose. “That sounded less bad-porn-dialogue in my head.”

“Well, you’re about to suck my dick, so you can sound as bad-porn as you want,” Bucky laughs at him.

Steve rubs the pads of his fingers over the red lines Bucky’s jeans left around his hips. “I like this,” he says. He’s thinking about what Antoine said, about how luck he is. Since Bucky apparently didn’t know how much he likes his stretch marks, maybe he doesn’t know how much Steve likes the lines his clothing leaves in his skin, too. He wants Bucky to know.

“Proof that my pants are too tight?”

“Well.” Steve puts his glasses on the nightstand before he settles back in next to Bucky with his leg hiked up across Bucky’s thighs. “Yes.” He traces his tongue over the groves. “But I meant more the marks. They’re like tattoos. But they’re always new. Different.”

“I know something else you might like, then,” Bucky says, pulling Steve on top of him.

“What - what’s that?” Steve stutters, wrapping his hand around both of them and stroking, slowly.

“Those were the new pants. The bigger ones.”

Steve moans. “I do like that, yes.” Steve tugs on their cocks again, and Bucky rolls them onto their sides, covering Steve’s hand with his own.

“This good?”

“It’s good, it’s good,” Steve pants. He bends his knee and wraps his leg behind Bucky’s thighs, pulling him closer. He digs his fingers into Bucky’s shoulder. He feels so good. Bucky’s fingers slide between his, and they’re both squeezing and pulling and he’s so ready to come. Bucky grunts and pushes Steve over the edge with him.

“Well,” Bucky says. “That was fast.”

“What can I say? You get me going,” Steve says, returning to the bad-porn dialogue and smarmy inflection from earlier.

“Hey, that’s right,” Bucky swats at his shoulder, uncoordinated and loose. “You owe me a blow job.”

“Put it on my tab.”

****

 “When we get home,” Steve says, “let’s do it.”

“Let’s do it?” Bucky asks. “That’s how you’re going to propose? Let’s do it?”

“Worked last time,” Steve shrugs. “Wanna get married? For real, in New York, with our friends, by an actual licensed clergy member?” Steve doesn’t really care about the rest of it, but he wants his friends there. They’re an important part of his life, the most important part of his life, and they should be involved somehow. It was important to Peggy, and it’s important to him. Maybe that’s why he freaked out on the street in the front of the chapel.

Bucky squints at him. “Is this like last time, where you’re asking me for future reference, or are you really asking me?” It sounds like Bucky’s trying to keep up the casual nature of the conversation, but he’s failing pretty hard.

Steve climbs off the bed, pulls Bucky to sit on the edge. Keeping both Bucky’s hands in his own, he kneels down in front of him. “You want me to really ask you? Will you marry me?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, fine.” He sighs heavily, dramatically. “If I gotta.”

Steve tackles him down onto the bed. “I don’t know why I want to put up with you forever,” he laughs.

“Too late now. Third time’s the charm.” He kisses Steve deeply.

Steve grinds his hips down, the layers of cotton between them not mattering at all. Bucky rolls them over, pinning Steve down at the wrists. Steve whimpers and Bucky grins wickedly.

He pushes Bucky off him and strips, waits for Bucky to do the same, and then pulls Bucky back on top of him. “Much better.”

Bucky kisses him again, licks at his lips and then kisses down his throat, across his shoulder and down his chest. He flicks his tongue across Steve’s nipple.

“You ever think about piercing this, baby?”

“Allergies.”

“Mmm,” Bucky hums, then bites. “This is good then.” He licks down farther, trailing his tongue around Steve’s shallow belly button and huffing out a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says. “Just so different than mine.”

“Better?”

“Nope,” Bucky says. He sucks a hickey onto Steve’s thigh and then stands up, pulling Steve to the edge of the bed. He moves so fast, Steve is almost unaware of him pouring lube over his fingers and pressing into him before he lines up.

Bucky pushes Steve’s ankles up over his shoulders, bending Steve in half and forcing a grunt out of him with every thrust. Steve loves it like this, because he doesn’t even have to touch his dick.

Bucky’s belly, round and hot, rubs up against him. Steve can angle it just right and get off just from rutting against Bucky and the feel of him, hard and deep inside him.

“I’m gonna marry you, Stevie. I’m gonna keep you with me forever. You’re going to be right here, with me, forever.”

Steve gasps as his orgasm sneaks up on him, and he cries out as Bucky hold his still, thrusts a few more times and then falls onto the bed beside him, panting heavily.

****

“No, Coulson, you’re wrong. Look, Zep has it’s place, Tull is phenomenal. Rush is amazing, especially when it comes to drumming, damn. But you’re lying if you try to convince yourself that the crown goes anywhere but to Metallica.”

Bucky leans away from him. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, it’s true,” Clint says, twisting around in the front seat to look at them.

“Coulson, did we ingest massive quantities of drugs when I wasn’t looking?”

Steve sits back. Bucky wasn’t into music when he was a kid. He listened to whatever bass-driven jock rock the football team turned on to get pumped or … whatever football teams do. He listened to whatever bass driven party rock was playing at high school house parties. He listened to whatever bass driven club music was playing in army bars. Basically bucky has a lot of experience with shitty bass driven music.

Bucky didn’t really feel the need to research what he was into now. He listened, and he had great tastes, but he was content to just consume what was out there. He liked to listen to what Steve turned him on to, take it in and experience it and then let it go. He didn’t need to dig, to hunt, to understand his music like Steve did. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Oh,” Clint says, catching Steve’s eye and nodding, then turning back around in his seat.

Coulson sighs. Steve knows he’s figured it out, too. “Bucky, are you familiar with the early works of their oeuvre?” Coulson turns on the lawyer talk.

Bucky wrinkles his forehead. “Like …” He looks at Steve. “The Black Album?”

Steve snorts. Bucky pinches him.

“Ow!” he says, but he can admit he’s being a condescending asshole toward Bucky. A little. He presses the buttons to make _Ride The Lightning_ come up and leans forward, unplugs Clint’s iPod and tosses it at him while he plugs his own in. “Okay, everyone shut up. In the next forty-five minutes, Bucky, I am about to blow your mind.”

He sits back and leans into Bucky, turns so his back is against Bucky’s side. He wants to feel Bucky’s breathing when the guitars kick in and the drums start. Bucky kisses his head - a habit of Bucky’s Steve secretly adores and hopes like hell Bucky never breaks - and settles in. By the end of the first track, their breaths are synchronized, and Steve’s got Bucky in that relaxed, half-hypnotized state he tries to get him to when he’s pulling him out of a panic attack.

Knowing Bucky’s history, he uses the fade out from _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ to check in. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah. This is. This isn’t even the same band,” Bucky says.

“I know. This next song is my favorite. Well, my favorite on the album. It’s, god, it’s gorgeous.” He wants to keep talking, tell Bucky everything about everything he’s ever thought about this song, but he needs Bucky to hear it, to hear it like he hears it, to feel it. So he forces himself to shut up. And listen.  

****

“Hey, Phil?” Steve is in the front passenger seat while Phil drives through the night across Indiana. He’s toying with the hem of his - Bucky’s - T-shirt. “Do you think Bucky’s like Clint?”

“Clint and Bucky have a lot of similarities. They are in fact currently snoring away in the backseat.”

“No, I mean. Do you think he’s like Clint.”

“He doesn’t think of himself as submissive. He himself told us that. Back in. Where was it? Oklahoma?”

“It’s good to see you’re still keeping up with the lawyer speak, Coulson.”

“I’m required by the bar association to maintain a certain number of CLE credits. Natasha and I are in talks with the bar association to make friendship with Tony Stark an acceptable substitute for seminars. But why do you ask?”

“I just want to make sure I’m doing things right.”

"You probably should be having this conversation with him."

"I know. I have. But you have," Steve sighs. “You're better at people. Especially people like that. I didn't even know you _were_ people like that."

"I heard."

"Yeah. The entire population of New York City heard about that. I live to entertain,” Steve says drily. “And I know you've talked to him about it."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to. I might not be good at talking to people but I'm pretty good at watching them. And I know you had your doubts about us. About me."

“That’s not true,” Coulson insists. “I never doubted that you and Bucky would be good together.”

“So you went behind my back to … what? To make sure I didn’t force Bucky to eat anything he didn’t want?” Steve scoffs.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes,” Coulson glances in the rearview mirror. Steve follows his sight lines to check that Clint and Bucky are still asleep.

Clint might not be, it’s usually hard to tell. But Bucky definitely is. Steve knows his breathing patterns pretty well by now.

“Bucky has, perhaps not submissive tendencies, though I wouldn’t discount that,” Coulson says. “But he is definitely willing to try anything to please his partner. I doubt he’d continue to enthusiastically engage in an activity he didn’t find personally fulfilling, like a true submissive would. But I think, not having entertained the thoughts of sleeping with him myself, that he’s game for anything you want to try.”

“You don’t think about fucking Bucky, Boss?” Clint says from the backseat.

Steve knew he wasn’t asleep.

“No, sweet boy. I do not.”

“Me neither,” Clint says, cheerfully.

“And that’ll be five minutes in the corner tonight for lying to me, Clint.”

Steve turns around in time to see Clint grin at him. “You think about having sex with Bucky?” Steve says, a little louder than he meant to.

“I think about having sex with everyone. I’m a highly sexual creature,” Clint says. “Ask Coulson.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Besides, then I’d be three for three.” Clint points at Coulson, Steve, and Bucky in turn.

“Everyone wants my sweet ass,” Bucky mumbles.

“I could go three for three in this car, too, you know,” Steve throws out petulantly.

Clint opens and closes his mouth a couple times while Coulson just laughs.  

“I’ll be happy to let you if you’ll just shut up,” Bucky says, kicking the back of Steve’s seat hard enough to bounce him forward a little bit. “Now quit talking about it and let me sleep.”

****

“So you did okay with the road trip.” Steve says, looking up from where he’s finishing the designs they decided on. It’s taking longer than he’d like because he’s concentrating. This has to be perfect. This is the most important tattoo he’s ever designed.

He’s scared shitless. You can still change your mind about a decision. But a tattoo is forever.

They’d gotten back into town late yesterday, spent the whole day sleeping in their own bed, and now they’re at the shop, waiting on their friends to show up and take them to a Welcome Back party.

“Looks like it.”

“You know Antoine is trying to get me to do a documentary?”

“He’s still on that? He’s been trying to get you to sign off on that for three years now.”

“Five, actually.”

“Five? Really?”

“Yup. But he’s only been seriously talking about it for the last three.”

“You’ve been pretty dead set against it,” Bucky says. “Why are you bringing it up?”

“Because Antoine emailed me the … what’s it called? The treatment.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It seems like it could be really cool. But it’s a travel-based show.”

“Okay.”

“We’d have to travel. But you did all right in the car. Not one panic attack.” Steve smiles. “If you’re good with a car, you’d probably be all right in an RV…” he trails off.

“You’ve been putting off the show because of me?”

“No. There were other concerns, too. Like I said. _Five years_. But I wasn’t going to go without you. They won’t be able to start it up until next summer, but I can give them the green light to go ahead and start developing. If you want.”

“Do you want?”

“I don’t know. It seems like it might be fun. But I like this. I like the shop too much,” Steve frowns at the ground. “But my hands. I’m not going to be able to do this forever. I already ache pretty badly when the weather’s awful. And this might be a strike while the iron is hot kind of opportunity.”

“Could be.”

“You’re not helping!”

“No. I’m not. But this isn’t my decision, babe. I’m with you whatever, but this is all you.”

“I don’t know, Bucky!”

Bucky shrugs. “Flip a coin.”

“What? I can’t make a decision like this based on a coin flip!”

“Trust me.” Bucky pulls a quarter out of his pocket. “Heads we go, tails we stay. Ready?” Bucky flips the coin and catches it before Steve can even wrap his head around how monumentally stupid this is.

Before he can open his fist, Steve grabs his hand with both hands. “I don’t want to go!” Steve rushes to get out. Oh god, if the quarter comes up heads he might _cry_.

“What?”

“I don’t want to go. I mean, I do, but not now. Not. Not yet.”

“Okay.” Bucky kisses him on the forehead.

“Tony said he’d finance it if we got network support. So he’ll probably hold off for a few years. Wait, what?”

Bucky puts his hand back in his pocket without opening his fist. “I said okay. We don’t have to go. We’ll stay here. Until you’re ready. And now we also know how you really feel.”

“That. That. That is a dirty trick!” Steve sputters.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

****

The shop’s not technically open. The neon signs are all off but Pepper, Tony, Cint, Bucky, and Steve are hanging out in the shop. Maria flings open the door, as much as the door will fling, considering the spring loaded shocks to keep it from slamming.

“Welcome back!” She pauses. “What did I miss?”

Bucky’s on the sofa, Steve can just see him out of the corner of his eye. He hasn’t stopped staring at his hand since Pepper finished.

She’s currently bent over his hand, finishing the last of the tiny, simple tattoo they’d decided on in the backseat of Coulson’s car.

“Party’s not just a welcome-home shindig,” Clint says, hopping off the counter. Clint points at him, and he can’t stop grinning.

“Yeah, it’s going to be, uh, it’s an engagement party.” Steve says, bending down the first two fingers of his left hand and showing off the script now running down the length of his ring finger.

“ _Til Death_. Wow. That’s. Congratulations,” Maria says, glancing over to Bucky where he wiggles his fingers at her.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come visit me on [tumblr](http://essieincinci.tumblr.com/), or look at things that remind me of this verse [here](http://cpbvpicturebook.tumblr.com/)


End file.
